| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | To My Friend | | By Francis Thompson |
| | | WHEN from the blossoms of the noiseful day, | |
| Unto the hive of sleep and hushèd gloom, | |
| Throng the dim-wingèd dreams, what dreams are they | |
| That with the wildest honey hover home? | |
| O they that have, from many thousand thoughts, | 5 |
| Stolen the strange sweet of ever blossomy you— | |
| A thousand fancies in fair-coloured knots | |
| Which you are inexhausted meadow to. | |
| |
| Ah, what sharp heathery honey, quick with pain, | |
| Do they bring home! It holds the night awake | 10 |
| To hear their lovely murmur in my brain, | |
| And sleep’s wings have a trouble for your sake. | |
| Day and you dawn together; for, at end, | |
| With the first light breaks the first thought—my Friend. | | | | |
|
|
