Francis Thompson
'My brother!' spake she to the sun;
The kindred kisses of the stars
Were hers; her feet were set upon
The moon. If slumber solved the bars
Of sense, or sense transpicuous grown
Fulfill-ed seeing unto sight,
I know not; nor if 'twas my own
Ingathered self that made her night.
A Phantasy.
God took a fit of Paradise-wind,
A slip of coerule weather,
A thought as simple as Himself,
And ravelled them together.
Unto His eyes He held it there,
To teach it gazing debonair
With memory of what, perdie,