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Poem by Francis Thompson
Where Art Thou Come?
'Friend, where to art thou come?' Thus Verity; Of each that to the world's sad Olivet Comes with no multitude, but alone by night, Lit with the one torch of his lifted soul, Seeking her that he may lay hands on her; Thus: and waits answer from the mouth of deed. Truth is a maid, whom men woo diversely; This, as a spouse; that, as a light-o'-love, To know, and having known, to make his brag. But woe to him that takes the immortal kiss, And not estates her in his housing life, Mother of all his seed! So he betrays, Not Truth, the unbetrayable, but himself: And with his kiss's rated traitor-craft, The Haceldama of a plot of days He buys, to consummate his Judasry Therein with Judas' guerdon of despair.
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