Фрэнсис Томпсон (Francis Thompson)

Grace of the Way

The windy trammel of her dress,
  Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh.
God's breath they spake, with visibleness
  That stirred the raiment of her flesh:

And sensible, as her blown locks were,
  Beyond the precincts of her form
I felt the woman flow from her--
  A calm of intempestuous storm.

I failed against the affluent tide;
  Out of this abject earth of me
I was translated and enskied
  Into the heavenly-regioned She.

Now of that vision I bereaven
  This knowledge keep, that may not dim:--
Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven,
  So ready is Heaven to stoop to him;

Which sets, to measure of man's feet,
  No alien Tree for trysting-place;
And who can read, may read the sweet
  Direction in his Lady's face.

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