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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LOVE IN DIAN'S LAP: PROEMION by FRANCIS THOMPSON

Poet Analysis

First Line: HEAR, MY MUSES, I DEMAND
Last Line: THAT TIMES THE GASPS OF POESY!
@3HEAR, my Muses, I demand
A little labour at your hand,
Ere quite is loosed our amity:
A little husband out the sand
That times the gasps of Poesy!@1

O beloved, O ye Two,
When the Years last met, to you
I sent a gift exultingly.
My song's sands, like the Year's, are few;
But take this last weak gift from me.

One year ago (one year, one year!)
I had no prescience, no, nor fear;
I said to Oblivion: 'Dread thou me!'
What cared I for the mortal year?
I was not of its company.

Before mine own Elect stood I,
And said to Death: 'Not these shall die!'
I issued mandate royally.
I bade Decay: 'Avoid and fly,
For I am fatal unto thee.'

I sprinkled a few drops of verse,
And said to Ruin: 'Quit thy hearse;'
To my Loved: 'Pale not, come with me;
I will escort thee down the years,
With me thou walk'st immortally.'

Rhyme did I as a charmed cup give,
That who I would might drink and live.
'Enter,' I cried, 'Song's ark with me!'
And knew not that a witch's sieve
Were built somewhat more seamanly.

I said unto my heart: 'Be light!
Thy grain will soon for long delight
Oppress the future's granary:'
Poor fool! and did not hear -- 'This night
They shall demand thy song of thee.'

Of God and you I pardon crave;
Who would save others, nor can save
My own self from mortality:
I throw my whole songs in the grave --
They will not fill that pit for me.

But thou, to whom I sing this last --
The bitterest bitterness I taste
Is that thy children have from me
The best I had where all is waste,
And but the crumbs were cast to thee.

It may be I did little wrong;
Since no notes of thy lyre belong
To them; thou leftest them for me;
And what didst @3thou@1 want of my song, --
Thou, thine own immortality?

Ah, I would that I had yet
Given thy head one coronet
With thine ivies to agree!
Ere thou restest where are set
Wreaths but on the breast of thee.

Though what avails? -- The ivies twined
By thine own hand thou must unbind,
When there thy temples laid shall be:
'Tis haply Death's prevision kind
That ungirt brows lie easily.

@3'Of all thy trees thou lovest so,
None with thee to grave shall go,
Save the abhorred cypress tree.'@1
The abhorred? -- Ah, I know, I know,
Thy dearest follower it would be!

Thou would'st sweetly lie in death
The dark southerner beneath:
We should interpret, knowing thee, --
'Here I rest' (her symbol saith),
'And above me, Italy.'

But above thy English grave
Who knows if a tree shall wave?
Save -- when the far certainty
Of thy fame fulfilled is -- save
The laurel that shall spring from thee.

Very little carest thou
If the world no laurel-bough
Set in thy dead hand, ah me!
But @3my@1 heart to grieve allow
For the fame thou shalt not see!

Yet my heart to grieve allow,
With the grief that grieves it now,
Looking to futurity,
With too sure presaging how
Fools will blind blind eyes from thee: --

Bitterly presaging how
Sightless death must them endow
With sight, who gladder blind would be.
'Though our eyes be blind enow,
Let us hide them, lest we see!'

I would their hearts but hardened were
In the way that I aver
All men shall find this heart of me:
Which is so hard, thy name cut there
Never worn or blurred can be.

If my song as much might say!
But in all too late a day
I use thy name for melody;
And with the sweet theme assay
To hide my descant's poverty.

When that last song gave I you,
Ye and I, beloved Two,
Were each to each half mystery!
Now the tender veil is through;
Unafraid the whole we see.

Small for you the danger was!
Statued deity but thaws
In you to warm divinity;
Some fair defect completion flaws
With a completing grace to me.

But when @3I@1 my veiling raised --
The Milonian less were crazed
To talk with men incarnately:
The poor goddess but appraised
By her lacking arms would be.

Though Pan may have delicious throat,
'Tis hard to tolerate the goat.
What if Pan were suddenly
To lose his singing, every note? --
Then pity have of Pan, and me!

Love and Song together sing;
Song is weak and fain to cling
About Love's shoulder wearily.
Let her voice, poor fainting thing,
In his strong voice drowned be!

In my soul's Temple seems a sound
Of unfolding wings around
The vacant shrine of poesy:
Voices of parting songs resound: --
'Let us go hence!' @3A space let be!@1

@3A space, my Muses, -- I demand
This last of labours at your hand,
Ere quite is loosed our amity:
A little stay the cruel sand
That times the gasps of Poesy!@1



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