But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold, Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.
Francis ThompsonAll 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 ThompsonSpring is come home with her world-wandering feet, And all things are made young with your desires.
Francis ThompsonSummer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.
Francis Thompson