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Poem by Francis Thompson
My Lady the Tyranness
Me since your fair ambition bows Feodary to those gracious brows, Is nothing mine will not confess Your sovran sweet rapaciousness? Though use to the white yoke inures, Half-petulant is Your loving rebel for somewhat his, Not yours, my love, not yours! Behold my skies, which make with me One passionate tranquillity! Wrap thyself in them as a robe, She shares them not; their azures probe, No countering wings thy flight endures. Nay, they do stole Me like an aura of her soul. I yield them, love, for yours! But mine these hills and fields, which put Not on the sanctity of her foot. Far off, my dear, far off the sweet Grave pianissimo of your feet! My earth, perchance, your sway abjures?-- Your absence broods O'er all, a subtler presence. Woods, Fields, hills, all yours, all yours! Nay then, I said, I have my thought, Which never woman's reaching raught; Being strong beyond a woman's might, And high beyond a woman's height, Shaped to my shape in all contours.-- I looked, and knew No thought but you were garden to. All yours, my love, all yours! Meseemeth still, I have my life; All-clement Her its resolute strife Evades; contained, relinquishing Her mitigating eyes; a thing Which the whole girth of God secures. Ah, fool, pause! pause! I had no life, until it was All yours, my love, all yours! Yet, stern possession! I have my death, Sole yielding up of my sole breath; Which all within myself I die, All in myself must cry the cry Which the deaf body's wall immures.-- Thought fashioneth My death without her.--Ah, even death All yours, my love, all yours! Death, then, he hers. I have my heaven, For which no arm of hers has striven; Which solitary I must choose, And solitary win or lose.-- Ah, but not heaven my own endures! I must perforce Taste you, my stream, in God your source,-- So steep my heaven in yours. At last I said--I have my God, Who doth desire me, though a clod, And from His liberal Heaven shall He Bar in mine arms His privacy. Himself for mine Himself assures.-- None shall deny God to be mine, but He and I All yours, my love, all yours! I have no fear at all lest I Without her draw felicity. God for His Heaven will not forego Her whom I found such heaven below, And she will train Him to her lures. Nought, lady, I love In you but more is loved above; What made me, makes Him yours. 'I, thy sought own, am I forgot?' Ha, thou?--thou liest, I seek thee not. Why what, thou painted parrot, Fame, What have I taught thee but her name? Hear, thou slave Fame, while Time endures, I give her thee; Page her triumphal name!--Lady, Take her, the thrall is yours.
Francis Thompson's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org