Alas, and I have sung <br />Much song of matters vain, <br />And a heaven-sweetened tongue <br />Turned to unprofiting strain <br />Of vacant things, which though <br />Even so they be, and throughly so, <br />It is no boot at all for thee to know, <br />But babble and false pain. <br /> <br />What profit if the sun <br />Put forth his radiant thews, <br />And on his circuit run, <br />Even after my device, to this and to that use; <br />And the true Orient, Christ, <br />Make not His cloud of thee? <br />I have sung vanity, <br />And nothing well devised. <br /> <br />And though the cry of stars <br />Give tongue before his way <br />Goldenly as I say, <br />And each from wide Saturnus to hot Mars <br />He calleth by its name, <br />Lest that its bright feet stray; <br />And thou have lore of all, <br />But to thine own Sun's call <br />Thy path disorbed hast never wit to tame; <br />It profits not withal, <br />And my rede is but lame. <br /> <br />Only that, 'mid vain vaunt <br />Of wisdom ignorant, <br />A little kiss upon the feet of Love <br />My hasty verse has stayed <br />Sometimes a space to plant: <br />It has not wholly strayed, <br />Not wholly missed near sweet, fanning proud plumes above. <br /> <br />Therefore I do repent <br />That with religion vain, <br />And misconceiv-ed pain, <br />I have my music bent <br />To waste on bootless things its skiey-gendered rain: <br />Yet shall a wiser day <br />Fulfil more heavenly way, <br />And with approv-ed music clear this slip <br />I trust in God most sweet; <br />Meantime the silent lip, <br />Meantime the climbing feet.<br /><br />Francis Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/retrospect-10/
