Summer 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 ThompsonOh invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, o world unknowable, we know thee.
Francis ThompsonBut 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 ThompsonThe innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,Moves all the labouring surges of the world.
Francis ThompsonNothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.
Francis Thompson