 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
176
DAPHNE
The river-god's daughter,—the sun-god sought her,
Sleeping with never a zephyr by her.
Under the noon he made his prey sure,
Woofed in weeds of a woven azure,
As down he shot in a whistle of fire.
Sleeping with never a zephyr by her.
Under the noon he made his prey sure,
Woofed in weeds of a woven azure,
As down he shot in a whistle of fire.
Slid off, fair daughter! her vesturing water;
Like a cloud from the scourge of the winds fled she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And feet less fleet than the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a laurel-tree.
Like a cloud from the scourge of the winds fled she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And feet less fleet than the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a laurel-tree.
Risen out of birth's waters the soul distraught errs,
Nor whom nor whither she flieth knows she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And fleet the beat of the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a poet, woe's me!
Nor whom nor whither she flieth knows she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And fleet the beat of the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a poet, woe's me!
You plucked the boughed verse the poet bears—
It shudders and bleeds as it snaps from the tree.
A love-banning love, did the god but know it,
Which barks the man about with the poet,
And muffles his heart of mortality!
It shudders and bleeds as it snaps from the tree.
A love-banning love, did the god but know it,
Which barks the man about with the poet,
And muffles his heart of mortality!
Yet I translate—ward of song's gate!—
Perchance all ill this mystery.
We both are struck with the self-same quarrel;
We grasp the maiden, and clasp the laurel—
Do we weep or we laugh more, Phœbe mi?
Perchance all ill this mystery.
We both are struck with the self-same quarrel;
We grasp the maiden, and clasp the laurel—
Do we weep or we laugh more, Phœbe mi?
177
‘His own green lays, unwithering bays,
Gird Keats' unwithering brow,’ say ye?
O fools, that is only the empty crown!
The sacred head has laid it down
With Hob, Dick, Marian, and Margery.
Gird Keats' unwithering brow,’ say ye?
O fools, that is only the empty crown!
The sacred head has laid it down
With Hob, Dick, Marian, and Margery.
| The works of Francis Thompson | |