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Francis Thompson (Фрэнсис Томпсон)


Penelope


Love, like a wind, shook wide your blosmy eyes,
You trembled, and your breath came sobbing-wise
For that you loved me.

You were so kind, so sweet, none could withhold
To adore, but that you were so strange, so cold;
For that you loved me.

Like to a box of spikenard did you break
Your heart about my feet. What words you spake!
For that you loved me.

Life fell to dust without me; so you tried
All carefullest ways to drive me from your side,
For that you loved me.

You gave yourself as children give, that weep
And snatch back, with--'I meant you not to keep!'
For that you loved me.

I am no woman, girl, nor ever knew
That love could teach all ways that hate could do
To her that loved me.

Have less of love, or less of woman in
Your love, or loss may even from this begin--
That you so love me.

For, wild Penelope, the web you wove
You still unweave, unloving all your love;
Is this to love me,

Or what rights have I that scorn could deny?
Even of your love, alas, poor Love must die,
If so you love me! 



Francis Thompson's other poems:
  1. Gilded Gold
  2. The Making of Viola
  3. Scala Jacobi Portaque Eburnea
  4. The Child-Woman
  5. After Her Going


Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):

  • Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт) Penelope ("So you’ve kem ’yer agen")

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