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Try whispering this, huskily, to yourself. It's rather kinkily invigorating:
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped; And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat -- and a voice beat More instant than the Feet -- "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me." ...Naked I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke ! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee ; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years -- My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding ; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah ! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount ? ...My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust ; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is ; what is to be ? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds ; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity ; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man's heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields Be dunged with rotten death ? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit ; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea : "And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard ? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me ! "Strange, piteous, futile thing ! Wherefore should any set thee love apart ? Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), "And human love needs human meriting : How hast thou merited -- Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art ! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me ? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home : Rise, clasp My hand, and come !" Halts by me that footfall : Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ? "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest ! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me." 'The Hound of Heaven' - Francis Thompson |
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