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Poem by Francis Thompson
Grace of the Way
The windy trammel of her dress, Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh. God's breath they spake, with visibleness That stirred the raiment of her flesh: And sensible, as her blown locks were, Beyond the precincts of her form I felt the woman flow from her-- A calm of intempestuous storm. I failed against the affluent tide; Out of this abject earth of me I was translated and enskied Into the heavenly-regioned She. Now of that vision I bereaven This knowledge keep, that may not dim:-- Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven, So ready is Heaven to stoop to him; Which sets, to measure of man's feet, No alien Tree for trysting-place; And who can read, may read the sweet Direction in his Lady's face.
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