All's vast that vastness means. Nay, I affirm
Nature is whole in her least things exprest,
Nor know we with what scope God builds the worm.
Our towns are copied fragments from our breast;
And all man's Babylons strive but to impart
The grandeurs of his Babylonian heart.

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Heart. . . Oxford Book of Modern Verse, The, 1892-1935. William Butler Yeats, ed. (1936) Oxford University Press.)

"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Hound of Heaven (l. 180-183). . . Oxford Book of Modern Verse, The, 1892-1935. William Butler Yeats, ed. (1936) Oxford University Press.)

Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. To My Godchild M.W.M., Poems (1913). Words inscribed (by Eric Gill) on Thompson's tombstone, Kensal Green, London.)

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 midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Hound of Heaven (l. 1-5). . . Oxford Book of Modern Verse, The, 1892-1935. William Butler Yeats, ed. (1936) Oxford University Press.)

Cry;?and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Kingdom of God (l. 18-20). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.)

Cry,?clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Kingdom of God (l. 22-24). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.)

All things by immortal power,
Near and Far
Hiddenly
To each other linked are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star.

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Mistress of Vision, Poems (1913).)

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare
And left the flushed print in a poppy there.

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. The Poppy, Poems (1913).)

From what Paradisal
Imagineless metal,
Too costly for cost?
Who hammered you, wrought you,
From argentine vapor??

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. To a Snowflake (l. 6-10). . . Family Book of Verse, The. Lewis Gannett, ed. (1961) Harper & Row.)

What heart could have thought you??
Past our devisal
(O filigree petall)
Fashioned so purely,

(Francis Thompson (1859-1907), British poet. To a Snowflake (l. 1-4). . . Family Book of Verse, The. Lewis Gannett, ed. (1961) Harper & Row.)