 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
204
A QUESTION
O bird with heart of wassail,
That toss the Bacchic branch,
And slip your shaken music,
An elfin avalanche;
That toss the Bacchic branch,
And slip your shaken music,
An elfin avalanche;
Come tell me, O tell me,
My poet of the blue!
What's your thought of me, Sweet?—
Here's my thought of you.
My poet of the blue!
What's your thought of me, Sweet?—
Here's my thought of you.
A small thing, a wee thing,
A brown fleck of naught;
With winging and singing
That who could have thought?
A brown fleck of naught;
With winging and singing
That who could have thought?
A small thing, a wee thing,
A brown amaze withal,
That fly a pitch more azure
Because you're so small.
A brown amaze withal,
That fly a pitch more azure
Because you're so small.
Bird, I'm a small thing—
My angel descries;
With winging and singing
That who could surmise?
My angel descries;
With winging and singing
That who could surmise?
Ah, small things, ah, wee things,
Are the poets all,
Whose tour's the more azure
Because they're so small.
Are the poets all,
Whose tour's the more azure
Because they're so small.
205
The angels hang watching
The tiny men-things:—
‘The dear speck of flesh, see,
With such daring wings!
The tiny men-things:—
‘The dear speck of flesh, see,
With such daring wings!
‘Come, tell us, O tell us,
Thou strange mortality!
What's thy thought of us, Dear?—
Here's our thought of thee.’
Thou strange mortality!
What's thy thought of us, Dear?—
Here's our thought of thee.’
‘Alack! you tall angels,
I can't think so high!
I can't think what it feels like
Not to be I.’
I can't think so high!
I can't think what it feels like
Not to be I.’
Come tell me, O tell me,
My poet of the blue!
What's your thought of me, Sweet?—
Here's my thought of you.
My poet of the blue!
What's your thought of me, Sweet?—
Here's my thought of you.
| The works of Francis Thompson | |