“The fairest things have fleetest end,Their scent survives their close:But the rose's scent is bitternessTo her who loved the rose.”
“The fairest things have fleetest end,Their scent survives their close:But the rose's scent is bitternessTo her who loved the rose.”
Francis Thompson
“The fairest things have fleetest end,Their scent survives their close:But the rose's scent is bitternessTo her who loved the rose.”
Francis Thompson, Complete Poetical Works of Francis Thompson“All things by immortal power. Near of far, to each other linked are, that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.”
Francis Thompson“Nothing begins and nothing ends That is not paid with moan For we are born in others' pain And perish in our own.”
Francis Thompson“What you theoretically know vividly realize.”
Francis Thompson“In all change well looked into the germinal good out-vails the apparent ill.”
Francis Thompson“Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, and left the flushed print in a poppy there.”
Francis Thompson“Where is the land of Luthany,Where is the tract of Elenore?I am bound therefore.'Pierce thy heart to find the key;With thee takeOnly what none else would keep;Learn to dream when thou dost wake;Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.Learn to water joy with tears,Learn from fears to vanquish fears;To hope, for thou dar'st not despair;Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;Plough thou the rock until it bear;Know, for thou else couldst not believe;Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;Die, for none other way canst live.'When earth and heave lay down their veil,And that apocalypse turns thee pale;When thy seeing blindeth theeTo what thy fellow-mortals see;When their sight to thee is sightless;Their living, death; their light, most lightless;Search no more--Pass the gates of Luthany,Tread the region Elenore!'Where is the land of Luthany?And where the region Elenore?I do faint therefore.'When to the new eyes of theeAll things by immortal power,Near or far,HiddenlyTo each other linked are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star;When thy song is shield and mirrorTo the fair snake curled pain,Where thou dar'st affront her terrorThat on her thou may'st attainPersean Conquest; seek no more,O seek no more!Pass the gates of Luthany,Tread the region Elenore!”
Francis Thompson“My freshness is spending its wavering shower in the dust.”
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