Wednesday's poem courtesy of Francis Thompson

Thompson's dying words were: "Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven" He was a great lover of children (and I make that comment in a true sense of purity as, indeed the poet meant it).

This is a great favourite of mine...extracts from.....

The Hound of Heaven

by

Francis Thompson (1859-1907)

 

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
  I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
  Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter

  Up vistaed hopes I sped;
             And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
                  But with unhurrying chase,
                  And unperturbèd pace,
                Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
                  They beat--and a Voice beat
                  More instant than the Feet--
                "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

                  I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
  Trellised with intertwining charities
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
                  Yet was I sore adread
Lest having Him, I must have naught beside);
But if one little casement parted wide,
  The gust of His approach would clash it to.
  Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
  And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;
                  Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to dawn, Be sudden; to eve, Be soon;
  With thy young skyey blossoms heap me over
                  From this tremendous Lover!
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
  I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
  Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
  Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
                  But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
                The long savannahs of the blue;
                    Or whether, Thunder-driven,
                  They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet--
                  Still with unhurrying chase,
                  And unperturbèd pace,
                Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
                  Came on the following Feet,
                  And a Voice above their beat--
                "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that after which I strayed
                In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
                Seems something, something that replies;
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
                With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's--share
With me," said I, "your delicate fellowship;
                Let me greet you lip to lip,
                Let me twine with you caresses,
                  Wantoning
              With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses'
                  Banqueting
                With her in her wind-walled palace,
                Underneath her azured daïs,
                Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
                    From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."
                    So it was done;
I in their delicate fellowship was one--
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
                  I knew all the swift importings
                  On the wilful face of skies;
                  I knew how the clouds arise
                  Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
                    All that's born or dies
                  Rose and drooped with--made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine--
                  With them joyed and was bereaven.
                  I was heavy with the even,
                  When she lit her glimmering tapers
                  Round the day's dead sanctities.
                  I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
                  Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
                    I laid my own to beat,
                    And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's gray cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
                These things and I; in sound I speak--
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
                  Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
                  The breasts of her tenderness;
Never did any milk of hers once bless
                    My thirsting mouth.
                    Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
                    With unperturbèd pace,
                  Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
                    And past those noisèd Feet
                    A voice comes yet more fleet--
"Lo naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

                  Now of that long pursuit
                  Comes on at hand the bruit;
                That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
                  "And is thy earth so marred,
                  Shattered in shard on shard?
                Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
                Strange, piteous, futile thing,
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught," He said,
"And human love needs human meriting,
                How hast thou merited--
Of all man's clotted clay rhe dingiest clot?
                Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee
                Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
                Not for thy harms.
But just that thou might'st seek it in my arms.
                All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for the at home;
                Rise, clasp My hand, and come!"

  Halts by me that footfall;
  Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstreched caressingly?
  "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
  I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."