Author: Francis Thompson

Cited by

• Edith L. Tiempo (1)
  • IN: Abide, Joshua (1964) Fiction, NULL
    EPIGRAPH: I fled Him, down the nights and downt he days; ... I fled Him down the labrinthine ways Of my own mind... I hid from Him... ... That voice is round me like a bursting sea: Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!... Rise, clasp my Hand, and come!
    FROM: The Hound of Heaven, (1893), NULL, UK
• Anthony Quinn (1)
  • IN: Half of the Human Race (2011) Fiction, American
    EPIGRAPH: It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though my own red roses there may blow; It is little I repair tot he matches of the Southron folk, Though the red roses crest the caps, I know. For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, To and fro: -- O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
    FROM: At Lord's, (1907), Poem, UK
• Robert Keable (1)
  • IN: Simon Called Peter (1921) Fiction, British
    EPIGRAPH: Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must— Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood er Thou canst limn with it?
    FROM: The Hound of Heaven, (1893), Poem, UK
• Algernon Blackwood (1)
  • IN: The Education of Uncle Paul (1908) Fiction, British
    EPIGRAPH: Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very different from the man of to-day. It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief; it is to be so little that the elves can reach to whisper in your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything, for each child has its fairy godmother in its own soul; it is to live in a nutshell and to count yourself the king of infinite space; it is To see a world in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour; it is to know not as yet that you are under sentence of life, nor petition that it be commuted into death.
    FROM: "Shelley", (1908), Poem, UK