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    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 1: "An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident."
    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 1: "An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident."
    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 1: "An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident."
    Ebook94 pages58 minutes

    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 1: "An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident."

    By Francis Thompson

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    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
    ISBN9781783949335
    The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 1: "An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident."

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      Book preview

      The Poetry Of Francis Thompson - Volume 1 - Francis Thompson

      The Poetry Of Francis Thompson

      Volume 1

      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.

      Index Of Poems

      The Hound Of Heaven

      To A Poet Breaking Silence

      By Reason Of Thy Law

      House Of Bondage

      Ode To The Setting Sun - Prelude

      The Dread Of Height

      To The Dead Cardinal Of Westminster

      Dedication To Coventry Patmore.

      Dedication To Wilfred And Alice Meynell

      The Kingdom Of God

      Sister Songs - An Offering To Two Sisters - The Proem

      Sister Songs - An Offering To Two Sisters - Part The First

      Sister Songs - An Offering To Two Sisters - Part The Second

      Memorat Memoria

      Epilogue - To The Poet's Sitter

      Her Portrait

      The Poppy

      A Judgment In Heaven

      Manus Animam Pinxit

      Scala Jacobi Portaque Eburnea

      Gilded Gold

      Dream Tryst

      The Hound Of Heaven

      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.

      Up vistaed hopes I sped and shot precipitated

      Adown titanic glooms of chasme d hears

      From those strong feet that followed, followed after

      But with unhurrying chase and unperturbe d pace,

      Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

      They beat, and a Voice beat,

      More instant than the feet:

      All things betray thee who betrayest me.

      I pleaded, outlaw wise by many a hearted casement,

      curtained red, trellised with inter-twining charities,

      For though I knew His love who followe d,

      Yet was I sore adread, lest having Him,

      I should have nought beside.

      But if one little casement parted wide,

      The gust of his approach would clash it to.

      Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

      Across the margent of the world I fled,

      And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

      Smiting for shelter on their clange d bars,

      Fretted to dulcet jars and silvern chatter

      The pale ports of the moon.

      I said to Dawn - be sudden, to Eve - be soon,

      With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

      From this tremendous Lover.

      Float thy vague veil about me lest He see.

      I tempted all His servitors but to find

      My own betrayal in their constancy,

      In faith to Him, their fickleness to me,

      Their traitorous trueness and their loyal deceit.

      To all swift things for swiftness did I sue,

      Clung to the whistling mane of every wind,

      But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,

      The long savannahs of the blue,

      Or whether, thunder-driven,

      They clanged His chariot thwart a heaven,

      Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn of their feet,

      Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

      Still with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace

      Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

      Came on the following feet, and a Voice above their beat:

      Nought shelters thee who wilt not shelter Me.

      I sought no more that after which I strayed

      In face of Man or Maid.

      But still within the little childrens' eyes

      Seems something, something that replies,

      They at least are for me, surely for me.

      But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair,

      With dawning answers there,

      Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.

      Come then, ye other children, Nature's

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