Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Francis William Lauderdale Adams was an essayist, poet, dramatist, novelist and journalist who produced a large volume of work in his short life.
Adams was born in Malta the son of Andrew Leith Adams F.R.S., F.G.S., an army surgeon, who became afterwards well known as a scientist, a fellow of the Royal Society, and an author of natural history books set in different parts of the British empire. Francis' mother, Bertha Jane Grundy, became a well-known novelist. Francis was educated at Shrewsbury School and from 1879 as an attache in Paris. He took up a teaching position as an assistant master at Ventnor on the Isle of Wight, for two years. He joined the Social... more »
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Francis William Lauderdale Adams Poems
'YES, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve — If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth!'
WHO is it speaks of defeat? — I tell you a Cause like ours Is greater than defeat can know; It is the power of powers!
Love and Death
Death? is it death you give? So be it! O Death, thou hast been long my friend, and now thy pale cool cheek shall have my kiss, while the faint breath expires on thy still lips, O lovely Death!
A Death At Sea
I DEAD in the sheep-pen he lies, Wrapped in an old brown sail. The smiling blue sea and the skies
'TIS not when I am here, In these homeless homes, Where sin and shame and disease And foul death comes;
LET him who toils, enjoy Fruit of his toiling. Let him whom sweats annoy, No more be spoiling.
CRUEL City, London, London, Where, duped slaves of devils' creeds, Men and women desperate, undone, Dream such dreams, and do such deeds:
To Queen Victoria In England
MADAM, you have done well! Let others with praise unholy, Speech addressed to a woman who never breathed upon eart ...
WHEN day's hard task's done, Eve's scant meal partaken, Out we steal each one,
Dedication To His Love
SWEETEST, in desperate hours Of clouds and lightning and rain, You came like a vision of flowers And summer and song once again:
Why He Loves Her
YOU ask me why I love her, As I love nought on earth? Why I'll put none above her For sorrow or for mirth?
THIS is Scotch William Wallace. It was He Who in dark hours first raised his face to see:
I STOOD in Père-la-Chaise. The putrid City, Paris, the harlot of the nations, lay, The bug-bright thing that knows not love nor pity,
A Mahomedan Ship Fireman
UP from the oven pit, The hell where poor men toil, At the sunset hour he comes Clean-clothed, washed from soil.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
'YES, let Art go, if it must be
That with it men must starve —
If Music, Painting, Poetry
Spring from the wasted hearth!'
Yes, let Art go, till once again
Through fearless heads and hands
The toil of millions and the pain
Be passed from out the lands:
Till from the few their plunder falls
To those who've toiled and earned
But misery's hopeless intervals
From those who've robbed and spurned.
Yes, let Art go, without a fear,
Like Autumn flowers we burn,
For, with her reawakening year,
Be sure she will return! —
Return, but greater, nobler ...