Foliage: Various Poems

FRANCIS THOMPSON

     Thou hadst no home, and thou couldst see
       In every street the windows' light:
       Dragging thy limbs about all night,
     No window kept a light for thee.

     However much thou wert distressed,
       Or tired of moving, and felt sick,
       Thy life was on the open deck—
     Thou hadst no cabin for thy rest.

     Thy barque was helpless 'neath the sky,
       No pilot thought thee worth his pains
       To guide for love or money gains—
     Like phantom ships the rich sailed by.

     Thy shadow mocked thee night and day,
       Thy life's companion, it alone;
       It did not sigh, it did not moan,
     But mocked thy moves in every way.

     In spite of all, the mind had force,
       And, like a stream whose surface flows
       The wrong way when a strong wind blows,
     It underneath maintained its course.

     Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower
       Too late for good, as some bruised tree
       That blooms in Autumn, and we see
     Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour.

     Some poets feign their wounds and scars.
       If they had known real suffering hours,
       They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers,
     More of Imagination's stars.

     So, if thy fruits of Poesy
       Are rich, it is at this dear cost—

     In nights of homeless misery.