Elegy for Francis Thompson

In shadows deep where silence reigns,
A poet's voice, a lingering strain,
From streets of gloom to realms of light,
He penned the words that touch the night.

Born 'neath Preston's modest skies,
A fragile child with soulful eyes,
He sought the heights where muses sing,
And found the weight of life’s hard sting.

To seminary halls he went,
A quest for faith, his spirit bent,
Yet poetry called, a siren's song,
In words of beauty, he belonged.

Through London’s mist and opium's haze,
He wandered lost in night’s embrace,
But even there, his verses grew,
In anguish deep, his truth he knew.

The Meynells saw his inner fire,
A flickering flame of pure desire,
They nurtured him, gave hope anew,
And from his pen, the muses flew.

Lizzie’s care, a gentle touch,
A heart so kind, it meant so much,
In darkest times, she held him close,
Her love, a light, a rare repose.

From Chatterton’s tragic plight,
To Tolkien’s worlds of mythic light,
From Shelley’s heart, to Crashaw’s soul,
Their echoes made his verses whole.

Through Chesterton’s encouraging hand,
He found his voice, a poet grand,
Kilmer’s tribute, a timeless ode,
Their words, with his, forever flowed.

As twilight fell, his body frail,
In Wales' embrace, he told his tale,
His final breaths, a gentle sigh,
To meet the heavens by and by.

He fled the nights, he fled the days,
Through arches old and winding ways,
Yet in his flight, he found his peace,
A soul released, his pain’s surcease.

God sets His poems in thy face,
A testament of love and grace,
In death, your voice shall never cease,
Dear Francis, may you rest in peace.