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Best Famous Francis Thompson Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Francis Thompson poems. This is a select list of the best famous Francis Thompson poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Francis Thompson poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Francis Thompson poems.

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by Robert William Service | |

Gods Skallywags

 The God of Scribes looked down and saw
The bitter band of seven,
Who had outraged his holy law
And lost their hope of Heaven:
Came Villon, petty thief and pimp,
And obscene Baudelaire,
And Byron with his letcher limp,
And Poe with starry stare.
And Wilde who lived his hell on earth, And Burns, the baudy bard, And Francis Thompson, from his birth Malevolently starred.
As like a line of livid ghosts They started to paradise, The galaxy of Heaven's hosts Looked down in soft surmise.
Said God: "You bastards of my love, You are my chosen sons; Come, I will set you high above These merely holy ones.
Your sins you've paid in gall and grief, So to these radiant skies, Seducer, drunkard, dopester, thief, Immortally arise.
I am your Father, fond and just, And all your folly see; Your beastiality and lust I also know in me.
You did the task I gave to you .
Arise and sit beside My Son, the best beloved, who Was also crucified.

by Francis Thompson | |

An Arab Love-Song

 The hunchèd camels of the night
Trouble the bright 
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon Through Heaven stray and sing, Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn, Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy mother And thy brother; Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! Am I not thy father and thy brother, And thy mother? And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?

by Francis Thompson | |

At Lords

 It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, To and fro: - O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

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by Francis Thompson | |

Before Her Portrait In Youth

 As lovers, banished from their lady's face
And hopeless of her grace,
Fashion a ghostly sweetness in its place,
Fondly adore
Some stealth-won cast attire she wore,
A kerchief or a glove:
And at the lover's beck
Into the glove there fleets the hand,
Or at impetuous command
Up from the kerchief floats the virgin neck:
So I, in very lowlihead of love, -
Too shyly reverencing
To let one thought's light footfall smooth
Tread near the living, consecrated thing, -
Treasure me thy cast youth.
This outworn vesture, tenantless of thee, Hath yet my knee, For that, with show and semblance fair Of the past Her Who once the beautiful, discarded raiment bare, It cheateth me.
As gale to gale drifts breath Of blossoms' death, So dropping down the years from hour to hour This dead youth's scent is wafted me to-day: I sit, and from the fragrance dream the flower.
So, then, she looked (I say); And so her front sunk down Heavy beneath the poet's iron crown: On her mouth museful sweet - (Even as the twin lips meet) Did thought and sadness greet: Sighs In those mournful eyes So put on visibilities; As viewless ether turns, in deep on deep, to dyes.
Thus, long ago, She kept her meditative paces slow Through maiden meads, with waved shadow and gleam Of locks half-lifted on the winds of dream, Till love up-caught her to his chariot's glow.
Yet, voluntary, happier Proserpine! This drooping flower of youth thou lettest fall I, faring in the cockshut-light, astray, Find on my 'lated way, And stoop, and gather for memorial, And lay it on my bosom, and make it mine.
To this, the all of love the stars allow me, I dedicate and vow me.
I reach back through the days A trothed hand to the dead the last trump shall not raise.
The water-wraith that cries From those eternal sorrows of thy pictured eyes Entwines and draws me down their soundless intricacies!

by Francis Thompson | |

Dream tryst

 The breaths of kissing night and day 
Were mingled in the eastern Heaven, 
Throbbing with unheard melody, 
Shook Lyra all its star-cloud seven.
When dusk shrank cold, and light trod shy, And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey; And souls went palely up to the sky, And mine to Lucidè, There was no change in her sweet eyes Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine; There was no change in her deep heart Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's, Wherein did ever come and go; The sparkle of the fountain drops From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dream Are fed with so divine an air, That Time's hoar wings grow young therein, And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her, Who with the Past meet girt about: Where her last kiss still warms the air, Nor can her eyes go out.

by Francis Thompson | |

Gilded Gold

 Thou dost to rich attire a grace,
To let it deck itself with thee,
And teachest pomp strange cunning ways
To be thought simplicity.
But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.
Therefore, albeit thou'rt stately so, In statelier state thou us'dst to go.
Though jewels should phosphoric burn Through those night-waters of thine hair, A flower from its translucid urn Poured silver flame more lunar-fair.
These futile trappings but recall Degenerate worshippers who fall In purfled kirtle and brocade To 'parel the white Mother-Maid.
For, as her image stood arrayed In vests of its self-substance wrought To measure of the sculptor's thought - Slurred by those added braveries; So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure, - From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demurenesses, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven vesture should subserve.
For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments.
Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.
The violet would thy dusk hair deck With graces like thine own unsought.
Ah! but such place would daze and wreck Its simple, lowly rustic thought.
For so advanced, dear, to thee, It would unlearn humility! Yet do not, with an altered look, In these weak numbers read rebuke; Which are but jealous lest too much God's master-piece thou shouldst retouch.
Where a sweetness is complete, Add not sweets unto the sweet! Or, as thou wilt, for others so In unfamiliar richness go; But keep for mine acquainted eyes The fashions of thy Paradise.

by Francis Thompson | |

Go songs for ended is our brief sweet play

 Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play; 
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow: 
And some are sung, and that was yesterday, 
And some are unsung, and that may be tomorrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way, Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow: And it was sweet, and that was yesterday, And sweet is sweet, though purchased with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way: And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow, Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know Today, Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know Tomorrow.

by Francis Thompson | |

In No Strange Land

 The kingdom of God is within you

O world invisible, we view thee, 
O world intangible, we touch thee, 
O world unknowable, we know thee, 
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! 

Does the fish soar to find the ocean, 
The eagle plunge to find the air-- 
That we ask of the stars in motion 
If they have rumor of thee there? 

Not where the wheeling systems darken, 
And our benumbed conceiving soars!-- 
The drift of pinions, would we hearken, 
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places-- Turn but a stone and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces, That miss the many-splendored thing.
But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry--and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.
Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, Cry--clinging to Heaven by the hems; And lo, Christ walking on the water, Not of Genesareth, but Thames!

by Francis Thompson | |

To A Snowflake

 What heart could have thought you? -- 
Past our devisal 
(O filigree petal!) 
Fashioned so purely, 
Fragilely, surely, 
From what Paradisal 
Imagineless metal, 
Too costly for cost? 
Who hammered you, wrought you, 
From argentine vapor? -- 
"God was my shaper.
Passing surmisal, He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapor, To lust of His mind -- Thou could'st not have thought me! So purely, so palely, Tinily, surely, Mightily, frailly, Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind, And His graver of frost.

by Francis Thompson | |

To Olivia

 I fear to love thee, Sweet, because 
Love's the ambassador of loss; 
White flake of childhood, clinging so 
To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow 
At tenderest touch will shrink and go.
Love me not, delightful child.
My heart, by many snares beguiled, Has grown timorous and wild.
It would fear thee not at all, Wert thou not so harmless-small.
Because thy arrows, not yet dire, Are still unbarbed with destined fire, I fear thee more than hadst thou stood Full-panoplied in womanhood.

by Francis Thompson | |

What shall I your true love tell?

 What shall I your true love tell, 
Earth forsaking maid? 
What shall I your true love tell 
When life's spectre's laid? 
"Tell him that, our side the grave, 
Maid may not believe 
Life should be so sad to have, 
That's so sad to leave!" 
What shall I your true love tell 
When I come to him? 
What shall I your true love tell 
Eyes growing dim? 
"Tell him this, when you shall part 
From a maiden pined; 
That I see him with my heart, 
Now my eyes are blind.
" What shall I your true love tell Speaking while is scant? What shall I your true love tell Death's white postulant? "Tell him love, with speech at strife, For last utterance saith: `I who loved with all my life, Loved with all my death.