classes ::: poet, mystic, author,
children :::
branches ::: Francis Thompson
see also :::

Instances - Definitions - Quotes - Chapters - Wordnet - Webgen

object:Francis Thompson

--- WIKI
Francis Thompson (16 December 1859 13 November 1907) was an English poet and Catholic mystic. At the behest of his father, a doctor, he entered medical school at the age of 18, but at 26 left home to pursue his talent as a writer and poet. He spent three years on the streets of London, supporting himself with menial labour, becoming addicted to opium which he took to relieve a nervous problem.
In 1888 a married couple, publishers, read his poetry and took him into their home for a time. They were to publish his first book Poems in 1893. In 1897, he switched to writing prose, drawing inspiration from life in the countryside, Wales and Storrington. His health, always fragile, continued to deteriorate and he died of tuberculosis in 1907. By that time he had published three books of poetry, along with other works and essays.

questions, comments, suggestions/feedback, take-down requests, contribute, etc
contact me @ or
join the integral discord server (chatrooms)
if the page you visited was empty, it may be noted and I will try to fill it out. cheers









Francis Thompson


QUOTES [1 / 1 - 18 / 18]

KEYS (10k)

   1 Francis Thompson


   13 Francis Thompson
   2 Francis Thompson

1: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 mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter. ~ Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven, [T5],

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:All things betray thee, who betrayest Me. ~ Francis Thompson
2:For we are born in other's pain, and perish in our own. ~ Francis Thompson
3:My freshness is spending its wavering shower in the dust. ~ Francis Thompson
4:No puedes zarandear una flor sin perturbar a una estrella. ~ Francis Thompson
5:Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity ~ Francis Thompson
6:Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, and left the flushed print in a poppy there. ~ Francis Thompson
7:O hope, most futile of futilities!
Thine iron summons comes again,
O inevadible Pain! ~ Francis Thompson
8:And thou ― what needst with thy tribes' black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart? ~ Francis Thompson
9:The fairest things have fleetest end,
Their scent survives their close:
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To her who loved the rose. ~ Francis Thompson
10:The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose’s scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. —Francis Thompson ~ Ann Rule
11: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 mist of tears. —“The Hound of Heaven” (FRANCIS THOMPSON, 1859–1907) ~ Colleen Coble
12:On the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life down upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years-
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. ~ Francis Thompson
13: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. ~ Francis Thompson
14: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. ~ Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven
15: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 mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter. ~ Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven, [T5],
16:A Corymbus for Autumn
How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?
Umbered juices,
And pulpèd oozes
Pappy out of the cherry-bruises,
Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden.
With hair that musters
In globèd clusters,
In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes,
Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden;
With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies,
Like velvet pansies
Where through escapes
The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies;
With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes
Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,
Thy naked feet unsandalled;
With robe gold-tawny that does not veil
Feet where the red
Is meshed in the brown,
Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. ~ Francis Thompson
17:The 1890s were apprentice years for Yeats. Though he played with Indian and Irish mythology, his symbolism really developed later. The decade was for him, as a poet, the years of lyric, of the Rhymers’ Club, of those contemporaries whom he dubbed the ‘tragic generation’. ‘I have known twelve men who killed themselves,’ Arthur Symons looked back from his middle-aged madness, reflecting on the decade of which he was the doyen. The writers and artists of the period lived hectically and recklessly. Ernest Dowson (1867–1900) (one of the best lyricists of them all – ‘I cried for madder music and for stronger wine’) died from consumption at thirty-two; Lionel Johnson (1867–1902), a dipsomaniac, died aged thirty-five from a stroke. John Davidson committed suicide at fifty-two; Oscar Wilde, disgraced and broken by prison and exile, died at forty-six; Aubrey Beardsley died at twenty-six. This is not to mention the minor figures of the Nineties literary scene: William Theodore Peters, actor and poet, who starved to death in Paris; Hubert Crankanthorpe, who threw himself in the Thames; Henry Harland, editor of The Yellow Book, who died of consumption aged forty-three, or Francis Thompson, who fled the Hound of Heaven ‘down the nights and down the days’ and who died of the same disease aged forty-eight. Charles Conder (1868–1909), water-colourist and rococo fan-painter, died in an asylum aged forty-one. ~ A N Wilson
18:Where is the land of Luthany,
Where is the tract of Elenore?
I am bound therefore.

'Pierce thy heart to find the key;
With thee take
Only what none else would keep;
Learn to dream when thou dost wake;
Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.
Learn to water joy with tears,
Learn from fears to vanquish fears;
To hope, for thou dar'st not despair;
Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;
Plough thou the rock until it bear;
Know, for thou else couldst not believe;
Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;
Die, for none other way canst live.

'When earth and heave lay down their veil,
And that apocalypse turns thee pale;
When thy seeing blindeth thee
To what thy fellow-mortals see;
When their sight to thee is sightless;
Their living, death; their light, most lightless;
Search no more--
Pass the gates of Luthany,
Tread the region Elenore!'

Where is the land of Luthany?
And where the region Elenore?
I do faint therefore.

'When to the new eyes of thee
All things by immortal power,
Near or far,
To each other linked are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star;
When thy song is shield and mirror
To the fair snake curled pain,
Where thou dar'st affront her terror
That on her thou may'st attain
Persean Conquest; seek no more,
O seek no more!
Pass the gates of Luthany,
Tread the region Elenore! ~ Francis Thompson


   4 Integral Yoga
   1 Psychology
   1 Mythology

   2 Sri Aurobindo

0.10 - Letters to a Young Captain, #Some Answers From The Mother, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Sweet Mother,
  I often remember a poem by Francis Thompson and
  its refrain:

01.13 - T. S. Eliot: Four Quartets, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 02, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
   Eliot's is a very Christian soul, but we must remember at the same time that he is nothing if not modern. And this modernism gives all the warp and woof woven upon that inner core. How is it characterised? First of all, an intellectualism that requires a reasoned and rational synthesis of all experiences. Another poet, a great poet of the soul's Dark Night was, as we all know, Francis Thompson: it was in his case not merely the soul's night, darkness extended even to life, he lived the Dark Night actually and physically. His haunting, weird lines, seize within their grip our brain and mind and very flesh

1.02 - The Refusal of the Call, #The Hero with a Thousand Faces, #Joseph Campbell, #Mythology
       Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven, opening lines.

1.12 - The Superconscient, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
  the vibration is almost palpable, so strong is its presence. Yet this is not an illumined vibration; it does not come from above the head but from the heart. Moreover, it has nothing to do with the meaning of the lines; the words are merely the garments of the vibration. Whereas this line by Francis Thompson issues straight from the illumined mind:

2.05 - On Poetry, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Philosophy
   Sri Aurobindo: Take Francis Thompson's "Hound of Heaven". Everybody does not understand it. Does it follow that Thompson is not a great poet? Or take the Upanishads. They deal with one subject only and have one strain. Can we say, therefore, that it is not great poetry?
   Disciple: I had a talk with X and he asks: How can Francis Thompson be called a great poet because he has written one poem "The Hound of Heaven" which is great?

Talks With Sri Aurobindo 1, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  can't be a great poet unless you write like me!" (After a short pause) Take,
  for instance, Francis Thompson's "Hound of Heaven". How many people
  understand and appreciate it? Does it follow that Thompson is not a great
  NIRODBARAN: Dilip asks whether Francis Thompson can be called a great

Talks With Sri Aurobindo 2, #Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Philosophy
  of you. In drama one is concerned with drawing characters with life and its
  reactions. I suppose what he wants is something more like Francis Thompson's poetry.
  PURANI: And Gerard Hopkins?


IN WEBGEN [10000/9]
Psychology Wiki - Willard_Van_Orman_Quine
Wikipedia - Category:Willard Van Orman Quine
Wikipedia - Willard van Orman Quine
Wikipedia - Willard Van Orman Quine -- American philosopher and logician
Wikipedia - Word and Object -- 1960 book by Willard Van Orman Quine
Willard Van Orman Quine

change font "color":
change "background-color":
change "font-family":
change "padding":
change "table font size":
last updated: 2021-08-18 17:32:28
383261 site hits