Francis Thompson Quotations

All things by immortal power. Near of far, to each other linked are, that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.

An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident.

And left the flushed print in a poppy there.

For we are born in other's pain, and perish in our own.

The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl.

Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

Nothing begins and nothing ends That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other's pain, And perish in our own

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.

Spring is come home with her world-wandering feet./ And all the things are made young with young desires.

The storm-damaged areas will recover much quicker if the regions that are already up and running do better and benefit from revitalization, ... It's more important than ever before that the rest of the state -- Monroe, Shreveport, Alexandria and the agriculture areas -- can thrive so as to lift up the rest of the state.

A dog, I will maintain, is a very tolerable judge of beauty, as appears from the fact that any liberally educated dog does, in a general way, prefer a woman to a man.

Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.

Agnosticism is the everlasting perhaps.

In all change, well looked into, the germinal good out-veils the apparent ill.

Oh invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, o world unknowable, we know thee.

Thou cannot stir a flower Without troubling a star.

The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

The desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.

Little Jesus, was Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me?

The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,Moves all the labouring surges of the world.

Spring is come home with her world-wandering feet, And all things are made young with your desires.

There is no expeditious road To pack and label men for God, And save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance, with strange surprise, Have blundered into Paradise.

But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold, Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.

Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed; Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.

So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure.-- From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demureness, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven vesture would subserve. For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments. Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.

Babies breathe a lot more rapidly than adults do, and what's more, they're also growing quickly and so they're absorbing lots more into the body and they're more fragile in terms of development and so on.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

I do not believe that Nature has a heart; and I suspect that, like many another beauty, she has been credited with a heart because of her face

Happiness is the shadow of things past, Wich fools still take for that which is to be!

All things by immortal power, Near and Far Hiddenly To each other linked are, That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling of a star.

The chambers in the house of dreams Are fed with so divine an air, That Time's hoary wings grow young therein, And they who walk there are most fair.

An atheist is a man who believes himself to be an accident