- By Francis Thompson (1859–1907)
O WORLD invisible, we view thee, | |
O world intangible, we touch thee, | |
O world unknowable, we know thee, | |
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! | |
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Does the fish soar to find the ocean, | 5 |
The eagle plunge to find the air— | |
That we ask of the stars in motion | |
If they have rumour of thee there? | |
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Not where the wheeling systems darken, | |
And our benumbed conceiving soars!— | 10 |
The drift of pinions, would we hearken, | |
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. | |
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The angels keep their ancient places;— | |
Turn but a stone, and start a wing! | |
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces, | 15 |
That miss the many-splendoured thing. | |
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But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) | |
Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss | |
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder | |
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. | 20 |
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Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, | |
Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems; | |
And lo, Christ walking on the water | |
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames! |
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