The Hound of Heaven
By Francis Thompson(1859–1907)
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.5
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，10
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.’15
I pleaded， outlaw-wise
By many a hearted casement， curtained red
Trellised with intertwining charities
(For， though I knew His love Who followèd
Yet was I sore adread20
Lest， having Him， I must have naught beside).
But， if one little casement parted wide
The gust of His approach would clash it to.
Fear wist not to evade， as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled，25
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars
Fretted to dulcet jarsAnd silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon30
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me， lest He see!
I tempted all His servitors， but to findMy own betrayal in their constancy，35
In faith to Him their fickleness to me
Their traitorous trueness， and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept， smoothly fleet，40
The long savannahs of the blue
Or whether， Thunder-driven
They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.45
Still with unhurrying chase
And unperturbèd pace
Deliberate speed， majestic instancy
Came on the following Feet
And a Voice above their beat—50
‘Naught shelters thee， who wilt not shelter Me.’
I sought no more that after which I strayed
In face of man or maid
But still within the little children’s eyesSeems something， something that replies，55
They at least are for me， surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there，Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.60
‘Come then， ye other children， Nature’s—share
With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship
Let me greet you lip to lip，Let me twine with you caresses，Wantoning65
With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses
BanquetingWith her in her wind-walled palace
Underneath her azured daïs，Quaffing， as your taintless way is，70
From a chaliceLucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’
So it was done:I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.75
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies
I knew how the clouds arise
Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings
All that’s born or dies80
Rose and drooped with made them shapers
Of mine own moods， or wailful or divine
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even
When she lit her glimmering tapers85
Round the day’s dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather
Heaven and I wept together
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine90
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat
And share commingling heat
But not by that， by that， was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.95
For ah! we know not what each other says
These things and I in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir， they speak by silences.
Nature， poor stepdame， cannot slake my drouth
Let her， if she would owe me，100
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky， and show me
The breasts o’ her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase，105
With unperturbèd pace
Deliberate speed， majestic instancy
And past those noisèd Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet—
‘Lo! naught contents thee， who content’st not Me!’110
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，115
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—120
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 lutanist125
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 indeed130
A weed， albeit an amaranthine weed
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must—
Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?135
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 shiverUpon the sighful branches of my mind.140
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 soundsFrom the hid battlements of Eternity145
Those shaken mists a space unsettle， then
Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen， enwoundWith glooming robes purpureal， cypress-crowned150
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 pursuit155
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!160
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—165
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack， thou knowest notHow little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee，Save Me， save only Me?170
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 mistakeFancies as lost，
I have stored for thee at home:175
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，180
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee， who dravest Me.’
