Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3: "The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl."
    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3: "The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl."
    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3: "The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl."
    Ebook143 pages1 hour

    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3: "The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl."

    By Francis Thompson

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Francis Thompson was born in Preston on Lancashire in December 18th, 1859. Educated at Ushaw College, near Durham he studied medicine at Owens College in Manchester. However the medical profession held little interest to him but writing did. He moved to London in 1885 but found no success and was quickly reduced to selling matches and newspapers for a living. Ill health offered up opium as a solution and to this he quickly became addicted. Life became increasingly difficult and soon Francis was no more than a vagrant living on the streets, chiefly around Charing Cross and along the Thames. In 1888 he sent some poems to the publishers of the Merrie England magazine who were Wilfrid Meynell and his noted poet wife Alice. They quickly sought him out, arranged for his housing and other necessities as well as medical treatment and encouraged him to write more. This culminated in the publication of his book ‘Poems’ in 1893. The book, including the seminal ‘Hound Of Heaven’ was recognised as a great work by many critics at the time and encouraged further volumes; Sister Songs in 1895 and New Poems in 1897. Years of ill health, addiction and vagrancy had taken their toll upon Francis and he moved to Storrington in Wales where we continued to write though by now he was invalided. An attempt at suicide was aborted by a vision he had of Thomas Chatterton, the teenage poet, who had committed suicide a century earlier. However his remaining years were few in number and he succumbed to tuberculosis at the age of 48 on November 13th, 1907. He is buried in the Catholic section of Kensal Green Cemetery in London. G.K. Chersterton said "with Francis Thompson we lost the greatest poetic energy since Browning."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateJan 3, 2014
    ISBN9781783949359
    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3: "The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl."

    Read more from Francis Thompson

    Related to The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3

    Related ebooks

    Poetry For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Poem Of The Week: The North Wind By Anne Brontë

      May 8, 2023

      That wind is from the North, I know it well;No other breeze could have so wild a swell.Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,Then faintly dies,And softly sighs,And moans and murmurs mournfully.I know its language; thus is speaks to me – ‘I have

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Siren’s Call

      Dec 3, 2020

      The Siren’s Call
      4 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Jun 1, 2021

      The night of the year is approaching. What have we done with our talent? All nature prompts and reproves us. How early in the year it begins to be late! —Henry David Thoreau, Journal, August 18, 1853 I thought of Carthage, Baalbek, Jerusalem, Rome,

      3 min read

    • Article

      Five Centos After Serhiy Zhadan

      Jan 1, 2022

      —based on first lines by Serhiy Zhadan Take only what is important. Take the letters,the dark shattered wicked winter. You hear everything passing,stories connected with murders, knife wounds. Remember how winter began in your town.The hot heart of t

      2 min read

    • Article

      Through the Night

      Oct 4, 2022

      The day is done, the sun has set. Imagine it sinking majestically in the sky, as depicted by Richard Strauss at the end of his vivid Alpine Symphony. Perhaps the end of daylight gives rise to a languid mood, evoked nowhere better than in Delius’s Son

      7 min read

    • Article

      Four Poems

      Nov 1, 2019

      Four Poems
      7 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      May 1, 2020

      How on the Kama River the eye grows dark,when the cities stand on oaken knees. Disguising itself in a web, beard to beard,the burning pine grove runs, younger in the water. The water resisted one hundred and four oars,bearing them up and down to Kaza

      3 min read

    • Article

      Must-Read Poetry: September 2019

      Sep 5, 2019

      Eight new and notable collections you want on your nightstand this month, including work by a lost Catalan master and the latest from our new poet laureate. The post Must-Read Poetry: September 2019 appeared first on The Millions.

      7 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Jun 4, 2018

      I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me. —Fred Allen I have always wondered, in reading travels, at the childish joy travellers felt at meeting people they knew, and their sense of loneliness when they did not, in

      4 min read

    • Article

      Meet Your New Favorite Poet

      Feb 20, 2019

      Meet Your New Favorite Poet
      6 min read

    • Article

      Wonderful Things

      Sep 7, 2023

      SHORTLISTED IN WM’S TUTANKHAMUN POETRY COMPETITION WERE: Guy Carter, Petersfield, Hampshire; Christine Griffin, Hucclecote, Gloucester; Sarah Das Gupta, Mamuden, Essex; Tracey Kitchen, Daventry, Northamptonshire; Lesley Mason, Norwich, Norfolk; Julie

      5 min read

    • Article

      Art’s Reflection

      Jul 1, 2021

      Art’s Reflection
      4 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      Nov 1, 2020

      The American linden sways nonplussed by the storm,a bounce here, a shimmy there, just shaking like musicleft over from the night’s end wafting into the avenues before sleep.I remember once walking down Clinton Street, and singingthat line returning,

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Waste Land turns 100

      Oct 19, 2022

      The Waste Land turns 100
      5 min read

    • Article

      Hello Darkness My Old Friend

      Jun 17, 2020

      Hello Darkness My Old Friend
      4 min read

    • Article

      In The Spotlight:your Writing Dark Side

      Dec 7, 2023

      Spooky season evidently offered creative inspiration aplenty for the WM writers, who responded to the call for writing in November’s crime-themed issue on the theme of ‘Dark Side’ with our fullest mailbox yet. The poetry and prose sent in demonstrate

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Art of Poetry No. 109

      Sep 8, 2020

      The Art of Poetry No. 109
      31 min read

    • Article

      Four Poems by Eavan Boland

      May 1, 2020

      Four Poems by Eavan Boland
      3 min read

    • Article

      Jasmine Fingers

      Aug 22, 2019

      Jasmine Fingers
      14 min read

    • Article

      FLICKERS APR Books

      Sep 1, 2019

      FLICKERS APR Books
      16 min read

    • Article

      Flood The World With Beauty

      Nov 1, 2019

      A big literary conference is probably not the best place for a poet dealing with a mental breakdown. But there I was at AWP, skittishly perusing tables at the book fair, under the garish lights of the Minneapolis Convention Center. For two years, par

      8 min read

    • Article

      Enduring Myths

      Oct 29, 2020

      Jeremy Pound delves into the world of classical poetry to explore how Ovid’s Metamorphoses has inspired a wealth of composers over the centuries In 8 AD, the poet Ovid found himself in a bad place. Quite literally. Exiled by Emperor Augustus, he was

      5 min read

    • Article

      Must-Read Poetry: December 2018

      Dec 6, 2018

      Here are four notable books of poetry publishing in December. Who is Mary Sue? by Sophie Collins Before the core of this book—a sequence that considers the pristine “Mary Sue,” a female character in fan fiction who often seems to be the “author’s ide

      4 min read

    • Article

      It’ll End In Tears…

      Oct 28, 2021

      It’ll End In Tears…
      6 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 3 - Francis Thompson

      The Poetry Of Francis Thompson 

      Volume 3.  New Poems

      Francis Thompson was born in Preston on Lancashire in December 18th, 1859.

      Educated at Ushaw College, near Durham he studied medicine at Owens College in Manchester.  However the medical profession held little interest to him but writing did.  He moved to London in 1885 but found no success and was quickly reduced to selling matches and newspapers for a living.

      Ill health offered up opium as a solution and to this he quickly became addicted.  Life became increasingly difficult and soon Francis was no more than a vagrant living on the streets, chiefly around Charing Cross and along the Thames.  In 1888 he sent some poems to the publishers of the Merrie England magazine who were Wilfrid Meynell and his noted poet wife Alice.   They quickly sought him out, arranged for his housing and other necessities as well as medical treatment and encouraged him to write more. This culminated in the publication of his book ‘Poems’ in 1893.   

      The book, including the seminal ‘Hound Of Heaven’ was recognised as a great work by many critics at the time and encouraged further volumes; Sister Songs in 1895 and New Poems in 1897.   Years of ill health, addiction and vagrancy had taken their toll upon Francis and he moved to Storrington in Wales where we continued to write though by now he was invalided.  An attempt at suicide was aborted by a vision he had of Thomas Chatterton, the teenage poet, who had committed suicide a century earlier. 

      However his remaining years were few in number and he succumbed to tuberculosis at the age of 48 on November 13th, 1907.  He is buried in the Catholic section of Kensal Green Cemetery in London. 

      G.K. Chersterton said with Francis Thompson we lost the greatest poetic energy since Browning.

      Dedication To Coventry Patmore.

      Lo, my book thinks to look Time's leaguer down,

      Under the banner of your spread renown!

      Or if these levies of impuissant rhyme

      Fall to the overthrow of assaulting Time,

      Yet this one page shall fend oblivious shame,

      Armed with your crested and prevailing Name.

      Note. This dedication was written while the dear friend and great Poet to whom it was addressed yet lived.  It is left as he saw it, the last verses of mine that were ever to pass under his eyes.  F. T.

      Index Of Poems

      SIGHT AND INSIGHT

      The Mistress Of Vision

      Contemplation

      'By Reason Of Thy law'

      The Dread Of Height

      Orient Ode

      New Year's Chimes

      From The Night Of Forebeing

      Any Saint

      Assumpta Maria

      The After Woman

      Grace Of The Way

      Retrospect

      A NARROW VESSEL

      A Girl's Sin - In Her Eyes

      A Girl's Sin - In His Eyes

      Love Declared

      The Way Of A Maid

      Beginning Of The End

      Penelope

      The End Of It

      Epilogue

      MISCELLANEOUS ODES

      Ode To The Setting Sun

      A Captain Of Song

      Against Urania

      An Anthem Of Earth

      MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

      'Ex Ore Infantium.'

      A Question.

      Field-flower

      The Cloud's Swan-song

      To The Sinking Sun

      Grief's Harmonics

      Memorat Memoria

      July Fugitive

      To A Snowflake

      Nocturn

      A May Burden

      A Dead Astronomer

      'Chose Vue'

      'Whereto Art Thou Come'

      Heaven And hell

      To A Child

      Hermes

      House Of Bondage

      The Heart.

      A Sunse

      Heard On The Mountain

      ULTIMA

      Love's Almsman Plaineth His Fare.

      A Holocaust

      Beneath A Photograph

      After Her Going

      My Lady The Tyranness

      Unto This Last

      Ultimum

      Envoy

      SIGHT AND INSIGHT

      'Wisdom is easily seen by them that love her, and is found by them that seek her.

      To think therefore upon her is perfect understanding.' WISDOM, vi.

      THE MISTRESS OF VISION.

      I

      Secret was the garden;

      Set i' the pathless awe

      Where no star its breath can draw.

      Life, that is its warden,

      Sits behind the fosse of death.  Mine eyes saw not,

      and I saw.

      II

      It was a mazeful wonder;

      Thrice three times it was enwalled

      With an emerald

      Seal-ed so asunder.

      All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their

      music thralled.

      III

      The Lady of fair weeping,

      At the garden's core,

      Sang a song of sweet and sore

      And the after-sleeping;

      In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.

      IV

      With sweet-panged singing,

      Sang she through a dream-night's day;

      That the bowers might stay,

      Birds bate their winging,

      Nor the wall of emerald float in wreath-ed haze away.

      V

      The lily kept its gleaming,

      In her tears (divine conservers!)

      Wash-ed with sad art;

      And the flowers of dreaming

      Pal-ed not their fervours,

      For her blood flowed through their nervures;

      And the roses were most red, for she dipt them in

      her heart.

      VI

      There was never moon,

      Save the white sufficing woman:

      Light most heavenly-human

      Like the unseen form of sound,

      Sensed invisibly in tune,

      With a sun-deriv-ed stole

      Did inaureole

      All her lovely body round;

      Lovelily her lucid body with that light was inter-

      strewn.

      VII

      The sun which lit that garden wholly,

      Low and vibrant visible,

      Tempered glory woke;

      And it seem-ed solely

      Like a silver thurible

      Solemnly swung, slowly,

      Fuming clouds of golden fire, for a cloud of incense-

      smoke.

      VIII

      But woe's me, and woe's me,

      For the secrets of her eyes!

      In my visions fearfully

      They are ever shown to be

      As fring-ed pools, whereof each lies

      Pallid-dark beneath the skies

      Of a night that is

      But one blear necropolis.

      And her eyes a little tremble, in the wind of her

      own sighs.

      IX

      Many changes rise on

      Their phantasmal mysteries.

      They grow to an horizon

      Where earth and heaven meet;

      And like a wing that dies on

      The vague twilight-verges,

      Many a sinking dream doth fleet

      Lessening down their secrecies.

      And, as dusk with day converges,

      Their orbs are troublously

      Over-gloomed and over-glowed with hope and fear

      of things to be.

      X

      There is a peak on Himalay,

      And on the peak undeluged snow,

      And on the snow not eagles stray;

      There if your strong feet could go,

      Looking over tow'rd Cathay

      From the never-deluged snow

      Farthest ken might not survey

      Where the peoples underground dwell whom

      antique fables know.

      XI

      East, ah, east of Himalay,

      Dwell the nations underground;

      Hiding from the shock of Day,

      For the sun's uprising-sound:

      Dare not issue from the ground

      At the tumults of the Day,

      So fearfully the sun doth sound

      Clanging up beyond Cathay;

      For the great earthquaking sunrise rolling up

      beyond Cathay.

      XII

      Lend me, O lend me

      The terrors of that sound,

      That its music may attend me.

      Wrap my chant in thunders round;

      While I tell the ancient secrets in that Lady's

      singing found.

      XIII

      On Ararat there grew a vine,

      When Asia from her bathing rose;

      Our first sailor made a twine

      Thereof for his prefiguring brows.

      Canst divine

      Where, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cluster

      grows?

      XIV

      On Golgotha there grew a thorn

      Round the long-prefigured Brows.

      Mourn, O mourn!

      For the vine have we the spine?  Is this all the

      Heaven allows?

      XV

      On Calvary was shook a spear;

      Press the point into thy heart

      Joy and fear!

      All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils

      start.

      XVI

      O, dismay!

      I, a wingless mortal, sporting

      With the tresses of the sun?

      I, that dare my hand to lay

      On the thunder in its snorting?

      Ere begun,

      Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old

      Icarian way.

      XVII

      From the fall precipitant

      These dim snatches of her chant

      Only have remain-ed mine;

      That from spear and thorn alone

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1