 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
13
THE MAKING OF VIOLA
I
The Father of Heaven.Spin, daughter Mary, spin,
Twirl your wheel with silver din;
Spin, daughter Mary, spin,
Spin a tress for Viola.
Angels.
Spin, Queen Mary, a
Brown tress for Viola!
II
The Father of Heaven.Weave, hands angelical,
Weave a woof of flesh to pall—
Weave, hands angelical—
Flesh to pall our Viola.
Angels.
Weave, singing brothers, a
Velvet flesh for Viola!
III
The Father of Heaven.Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes,
Wood-browned pools of Paradise—
Young Jesus, for the eyes,
For the eyes of Viola.
14
Tint, Prince Jesus, a
Duckèd eye for Viola!
IV
The Father of Heaven.Cast a star herein to drown,
Like a torch in cavern brown,
Sink a burning star to drown
Whelmed in eyes of Viola.
Angels.
Lave, Prince Jesus, a
Star in eyes of Viola!
V
The Father of Heaven.Breathe, Lord of Paraclete,
To a bubbled crystal meet—
Breathe, Lord Paraclete—
Crystal soul for Viola.
Angels.
Breathe, Regal Spirit, a
Flashing soul for Viola!
VI
The Father of Heaven.Child-angels, from your wings
Fall the roseal hoverings,
Child-angels, from your wings,
On the cheeks of Viola.
15
Linger, rosy reflex, a
Quenchless stain, on Viola!
VII
All things being accomplished, saiththe Father of Heaven:
Bear her down, and bearing, sing,
Bear her down on spyless wing,
Bear her down, and bearing, sing,
With a sound of viola.
Angels.
Music as her name is, a
Sweet sound of Viola!
VIII
Wheeling angels, past espial,
Danced her down with sound of viol;
Wheeling angels, past espial,
Descanting on “Viola.”
Angels.
Danced her down with sound of viol;
Wheeling angels, past espial,
Descanting on “Viola.”
Sing, in our footing, a
Lovely lilt of “Viola!”
IX
Baby smiled, mother wailed,
Earthward while the sweetling sailed;
Mother smiled, baby wailed,
When to earth came Viola.
And her elders shall say:
Earthward while the sweetling sailed;
Mother smiled, baby wailed,
When to earth came Viola.
So soon have we taught you a
Way to weep, poor Viola!
Way to weep, poor Viola!
16
X
Smile, sweet baby, smile,
For you will have weeping-while;
Native in your Heaven is smile,—
But your weeping, Viola?
For you will have weeping-while;
Native in your Heaven is smile,—
But your weeping, Viola?
Whence your smiles we know, but ah!
Whence your weeping, Viola?—
Our first gift to you is a
Gift of tears, my Viola!
Whence your weeping, Viola?—
Our first gift to you is a
Gift of tears, my Viola!
| The works of Francis Thompson | |