James, my inspiration and Muse...


Here is a collection of my favourite poetry,
Mr May has admitted to liking poetry.
He has even inspired me to write some.
He likes poetry, I like him.

Click on pics to enlarge.

Thank you for visiting.

Monday, 15 September 2014

Francis Thompson

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
     Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
     O breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South,
     And southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand
     Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
     Red for the gatherer springs;
Two children did we stray and talk
     Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
     Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape whose veins
     Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake,
     Nor knew her own sweet way;
But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
     Thronged in whose throat all day.

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
     On the turf and on the spray;
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
     Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
     She gave me tokens three:--
A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
     And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,
     A still word,--strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
     Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air,
     And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand,
     And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end,
     Their scent survives their close:
But the rose's scent is bitterness
     To him that loved the rose.

She looked a little wistfully,
     Then went her sunshine way:--
The sea's eye had a mist on it,
     And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
     She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
     And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
     Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
     The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
     Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand,
     And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
     That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in other's pain,
     And perish in our own.