To The Dead Cardinal Of Westminster
I will not perturbate
Thy Paradisal state
With praise
Of thy dead days;
To the new-heavened say, -
'Spirit, thou wert fine clay:'
This do,
Thy praise who knew.
Therefore my spirit clings
Heaven's porter by the wings,
And holds
Its gated golds
Apart, with thee to press
A private business; -
Whence,
Deign me audience.
Anchorite, who didst dwell
With all the world for cell
My soul
Round me doth roll
A sequestration bare.
Too far alike we were,
Too far
Dissimilar.
For its burning fruitage I
Do climb the tree o' the sky;
Do prize
Some human eyes.
YOU smelt the Heaven-blossoms,
And all the sweet embosoms
The dear
Uranian year.
Those Eyes my weak gaze shuns,
Which to the suns are Suns.
Did
Not affray your lid.
The carpet was let down
(With golden mouldings strown)
For you
Of the angels' blue.
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poem by Francis Thompson
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