 | Uncollected verses by Francis Thompson |  |
6
IN A MORTAL GARDEN THEY SET THE POET
In a mortal garden they set the poet,
With mortal maiden and mortal child,
Mortal bees, and mortal blossoms,
All the sweets that the summer embosoms:
“He smiled in sorrow,” they said, “now, lo! it
Must be he will laugh like a four-years' child!”
In a mortal garden they set the poet;
As a trapped bird breathed he wild.
He had smiled in sorrow: not now he smiled.
With mortal maiden and mortal child,
Mortal bees, and mortal blossoms,
All the sweets that the summer embosoms:
“He smiled in sorrow,” they said, “now, lo! it
Must be he will laugh like a four-years' child!”
In a mortal garden they set the poet;
As a trapped bird breathed he wild.
He had smiled in sorrow: not now he smiled.
“It is not,” he muttered, “the land of fire;
The roaring green of the flamèd trees
Blows not wide in a windy pyre;
No grass hisses against the breeze;
Nor the light of the lily, the heat of the rose,
Comes and goes
With the fitful gust by the scintillant streams.
Be sad, my bosom—dreams, dreams, dreams!”
The roaring green of the flamèd trees
Blows not wide in a windy pyre;
No grass hisses against the breeze;
Nor the light of the lily, the heat of the rose,
Comes and goes
With the fitful gust by the scintillant streams.
Be sad, my bosom—dreams, dreams, dreams!”
But into the garden, pacing slowly,
Came a lady with eyes inhuman,
There came a lady who was not woman,
And the sad slow mouth of him smiled again.
Came a lady with eyes inhuman,
There came a lady who was not woman,
And the sad slow mouth of him smiled again.
| Uncollected verses by Francis Thompson | |