Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.
Francis ThompsonThe desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.
Francis ThompsonBaby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed; Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.
Francis ThompsonThe fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.
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