Francis Thompson

Thou hadst no home, and thou couldst see      In every street the windows' light:      Dragging thy limbs about all night,     No window kept a light for thee.     However much thou wert distressed,      Or tired of moving, and felt sick,      Thy life was on the open deck,     Thou hadst no cabin for thy rest.     Thy barque was helpless 'neath the sky,      No pilot thought thee worth his pains      To guide for love or money gains,     Like phantom ships the rich sailed by.     Thy shadow mocked thee night and day,      Thy life's companion, it alone;      It did not sigh, it did not moan,     But mocked thy moves in every way.     In spite of all, the mind had force,      And, like a stream whose surface flows      The wrong way when a strong wind blows,     It underneath maintained its course.     Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower      Too late for good, as some bruised tree      That blooms in Autumn, and we see     Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour.     Some poets feign their wounds and scars.      If they had known real suffering hours,      They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers,     More of Imagination's stars.     So, if thy fruits of Poesy      Are rich, it is at this dear cost,      That they were nipt by Sorrow's frost,     In nights of homeless misery.