To A Poet Breaking Silence Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


Too wearily had we and songA
Been left to look and left to longA
Yea song and we to long and lookB
Since thine acquainted feet forsookB
The mountain where the Muses hymnC
For Sinai and the SeraphimD
Now in both the mountains' shineE
Dress thy countenance twice divineE
From Moses and the Muses drawF
The Tables of thy double LawF
His rod born fount and CastalyF
Let the one rock bring forth for theeG
Renewing so from either springH
The songs which both thy countries singH
Or we shall fear lest heavened thus longA
Thou should'st forget thy native songA
And mar thy mortal melodiesI
With broken stammer of the skiesJ
Ah let the sweet birds of the LordK
With earth's waters make accordK
Teach how the crucifix may beG
Carven from the laurel treeG
Fruit of the HesperidesJ
Burnish take on Eden treesJ
The Muses' sacred grove be wetL
With the red dew of OlivetL
And Sappho lay her burning browsJ
In white Cecilia's lap of snowsJ
Thy childhood must have felt the stingsJ
Of too divine o'ershadowingsJ
Its odorous heart have been a blossomD
That in darkness did unbosomD
Those fire flies of God to inviteL
Burning spirits which by nightL
Bear upon their laden wingH
To such hearts impregnatingH
For flowers that night wings fertilizeJ
Mock down the stars' unsteady eyesJ
And with a happy sleepless glanceJ
Gaze the moon out of countenanceJ
I think thy girlhood's watchers mustL
Have took thy folded songs on trustL
And felt them as one feels the stirM
Of still lightnings in the hairN
When conscious hush expects the cloudL
To speak the golden secret loudL
Which tacit air is privy toL
Flasked in the grape the wine they knewL
Ere thy poet mouth was ableF
For its first young starry babbleF
Keep'st thou not yet that subtle graceJ
Yea in this silent interspaceJ
God sets His poems in thy faceJ
The loom which mortal verse affordsJ
Out of weak and mortal wordsJ
Wovest thou thy singing weed inO
To a rune of thy far EdenP
Vain are all disguises AhQ
Heavenly incognitaL
Thy mien bewrayeth through that wrongA
The great Uranian House of SongA
As the vintages of earthR
Taste of the sun that riped their birthR
We know what never cadent SunP
Thy lamped clusters throbbed uponS
What plumed feet the winepress trodL
Thy wine is flavorous of GodL
Whatever singing robe thou wearN
Has the Paradisal airN
And some gold feather it has keptL
Shows what Floor it lately sweptL

Francis Thompson


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