The lover whose soul shaken is <br />In some decuman billow of bliss, <br />Who feels his gradual-wading feet <br />Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet, <br />And 'mid love's us-ed converse comes <br />Sharp on a mood which all joy sums-- <br />An instant's fine compendium of <br />The liberal-leav-ed writ of love; <br />His abashed pulses beating thick <br />At the exigent joy and quick, <br />Is dumbed, by aiming utterance great <br />Up to the miracle of his fate. <br />The wise girl, such Icarian fall <br />Saved by her confidence that she's small,-- <br />As what no kindred word will fit <br />Is uttered best by opposite, <br />Love in the tongue of hate exprest, <br />And deepest anguish in a jest,-- <br />Feeling the infinite must be <br />Best said by triviality, <br />Speaks, where expression bates its wings, <br />Just happy, alien, little things; <br />What of all words is in excess <br />Implies in a sweet nothingness, <br />With dailiest babble shows her sense <br />That full speech were full impotence; <br />And while she feels the heavens lie bare, <br />She only talks about her hair.<br /><br />Francis Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-way-of-a-maid/
