Here I make oath—

Although the heart that knows its bitterness Hear loath,

And credit less—

That he who kens to meet Pain’s kisses fierce Which hiss against his tears,

Dread, loss, nor love frustrate,

Nor all iniquity of the froward years Shall his inured wing make idly bate,

Nor of the appointed quarry his staunch sight To lose observance quite;

Seal from half-sad and half-elate Sagacious eyes Ultimate Paradise;

Nor shake his certitude of haughty fate.

Pacing the burning shares of many dooms,

I with stern tread do the clear-witting stars To judgement cite,

If I have borne aright

The proving of their pure-willed ordeal.

From food of all delight

The heavenly Falconer my heart debars,

And tames with fearful glooms The haggard to His call;

Yet sometimes comes a hand, sometimes a voice withal,

And she sits meek now, and expects the light.

In this Avernian sky,

This sultry and incumbent canopy Of dull and doomed regret;

Where on the unseen verges yet, O yet,

At intervals,

Trembles, and falls,

Faint lightning of remembered transient sweet—

Ah, far too sweet

But to be sweet a little, a little sweet, and fleet; Leaving this pallid trace,

This loitering and most fitful light, a space,

Still some sad space,

For Grief to see her own poor face :—

Here where I keep my stand With all o’er-anguished feet,

And no live comfort near on any hand;

Lo, I proclaim the unavoided term,

When this morass of tears, then drained and firm, Shall be a land—

Unshaken I affirm—

Where seven-quired psalterings meet;

And all the gods move with calm hand in hand, And eyes that know not trouble and the worm.

Francis Thompson.