0

Poem: “A Question”

by on Nov 25, 2013 in Poetry
Print This Article

A Question

O bird with heart of wassail,
That toss the Bacchic branch,
And slip your shaken music,
An elfin avalanche;

Come tell me, O tell me,
My poet of the blue!
What’s YOUR thought of me, Sweet?–
Here’s MY thought of you.

A small thing, a wee thing,
A brown fleck of nought;
With winging and singing
That who could have thought?

A small thing, a wee thing,
A brown amaze withal,
That fly a pitch more azure
Because you’re so small.

Bird, I’m a small thing–
My angel descries;
With winging and singing
That who could surmise?

Ah, small things, ah, wee things,
Are the poets all,
Whose tour’s the more azure
Because they’re so small.

The angels hang watching
The tiny men-things:-
‘The dear speck of flesh, see,
With such daring wings!

‘Come, tell us, O tell us,
Thou strange mortality!
What’s THY thought of us, Dear?–
Here’s OUR thought of thee.’

‘Alack! you tall angels,
I can’t think so high!
I can’t think what it feels like
Not to be I.’

Come tell me, O tell me,
My poet of the blue!
What’s YOUR thought of me, Sweet?–
Here’s MY thought of you.

Francis Thompson


Francis Thompson was born in England to a respectable Catholic family in 1859. He studied to become a priest, but was sent home by the headmaster who declared that Francis was not cut out for the priesthood. Francis then tried to become a doctor. Instead he became an opium addict, destitute, and lived on the streets. Though homeless, he wrote poetry and sent it to a publisher. This was the turning point in his life. The publisher sent Francis to a clinic to sober up, and then to a monastery to convalesce where he wrote most of his poetry. Francis died in 1907.