Selected Poems of Francis Thompson — To the Sinking Sun

TO THE SINKING SUN

How graciously thou wear'st the yoke Of use that does not fail!

The grasses, like an anchored smoke, Ride in the bending gale;

This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna, And fire-dropt as a seraph's mail.

Here every eve thou stretchest out Untarnishable wing, And marvellously bring'st about Newly an olden thing;

Nor ever through like-ordered heaven Moves largely thy grave progressing.

Here every eve thou goest down Behind the self-same hill, Nor ever twice alike go'st down Behind the self-same hill;

Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flower Possessed with glory past its will.

Not twice alike!

I am not blind, My sight is live to see;

And yet I do complain of thy Weary variety.

O Sun!

I ask thee less or more, Change not at all, or utterly!

O give me unprevisioned new, Or give to change reprieve!

For new in me is olden too, That I for sameness grieve.

O flowers!

O grasses!

be but once The grass and flower of yester-eve!

Wonder and sadness are the lot Of change: thou yield'st mine eyes Grief of vicissitude, but not Its penetrant surprise.

Immutability mutable Burthens my spirit and the skies.

O altered joy, all joyed of yore, Plodding in unconned ways!

O grief grieved out, and yet once more A dull, new, staled amaze!

I dream, and all was dreamed before, Or dream I so?

the dreamer says.