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Poem by Francis Thompson
The Dread of Height
Not the Circean wine Most perilous is for pain: Grapes of the heavens' star-loaden vine, Whereto the lofty-placed Thoughts of fair souls attain, Tempt with a more retributive delight, And do disrelish all life's sober taste. 'Tis to have drunk too well The drink that is divine, Maketh the kind earth waste, And breath intolerable. Ah me! How shall my mouth content it with mortality? Lo, secret music, sweetest music, From distances of distance drifting its lone flight, Down the arcane where Night would perish in night, Like a god's loosened locks slips undulously: Music that is too grievous of the height For safe and low delight, Too infinite, For bounded hearts which yet would girth the sea! So let it be, Though sweet be great, and though my heart be small: So let it be, O music, music, though you wake in me No joy, no joy at all; Although you only wake Uttermost sadness, measure of delight, Which else I could not credit to the height, Did I not know, That ill is statured to its opposite; Did I not know, And even of sadness so, Of utter sadness make, Of extreme sad a rod to mete The incredible excess of unsensed sweet, And mystic wall of strange felicity. So let it be, Though sweet be great, and though my heart be small, And bitter meat The food of gods for men to eat; Yea, John ate daintier, and did tread Less ways of heat, Than whom to their wind-carpeted High banquet-hall, And golden love-feasts, the fair stars entreat. But ah withal, Some hold, some stay, O difficult Joy, I pray, Some arms of thine, Not only, only arms of mine! Lest like a weary girl I fall From clasping love so high, And lacking thus thine arms, then may Most hapless I Turn utterly to love of basest rate; For low they fall whose fall is from the sky. Yea, who me shall secure But I of height grown desperate Surcease my wing, and my lost fate Be dashed from pure To broken writhings in the shameful slime: Lower than man, for I dreamed higher, Thrust down, by how much I aspire, And damned with drink of immortality? For such things be, Yea, and the lowest reach of reeky Hell Is but made possible By forta'en breath of Heaven's austerest clime. These tidings from the vast to bring Needeth not doctor nor divine, Too well, too well My flesh doth know the heart-perturbing thing; That dread theology alone Is mine, Most native and my own; And ever with victorious toil When I have made Of the deific peaks dim escalade, My soul with anguish and recoil Doth like a city in an earthquake rock, As at my feet the abyss is cloven then, With deeper menace than for other men, Of my potential cousinship with mire; That all my conquered skies do grow a hollow mock, My fearful powers retire, No longer strong, Reversing the shook banners of their song. Ah, for a heart less native to high Heaven, A hooded eye, for jesses and restraint, Or for a will accipitrine to pursue! The veil of tutelar flesh to simple livers given, Or those brave-fledging fervours of the Saint, Whose heavenly falcon-craft doth never taint, Nor they in sickest time their ample virtue mew.
Francis Thompson's other poems:
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