Any Saint
His shoulder did I hold
Too high that I, o'erbold
Weak one,
Should lean thereon.
But He a little hath
Declined His stately path
And my
Feet set more high;
That the slack arm may reach
His shoulder, and faint speech
Stir
His unwithering hair.
And bolder now and bolder
I lean upon that shoulder
So dear
He is and near:
And with His aureole
The tresses of my soul
Are blent
In wished content.
Yes, this too gentle Lover
Hath flattering words to move her
To pride
By His sweet side.
Ah, Love! somewhat let be!
Lest my humility
Grow weak
When thou dost speak!
Rebate thy tender suit,
Lest to herself impute
Some worth
Thy bride of earth!
A maid too easily
Conceits herself to be
Those things
Her lover sings;
And being straitly wooed,
Believes herself the Good
And Fair
He seeks in her.
[...] Read more
poem by Francis Thompson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
