Frank Leslie Thomson Wilmot, who published his work under the pseudonym Furnley Maurice, was a noted Australian poet, best known for To God: From the Warring Nations (1917).
Wilmot was a son of Henry William Wilmot, an ironmonger and pioneer of the socialist movement in Victoria, and his wife, Elizabeth Mary Hind. He was born at Collingwood, a suburb of Melbourne, and was educated at the North Fitzroy State School. In 1895 he obtained employment at Cole's Book Arcade, Melbourne. He married Ida Meeking in 1910, and they had two sons. Wilmot gradually improved his position at the book arcade and, when the business was wound up by the executors of the Cole ... more »
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Frank Wilmot Poems
THERE grows a white, white flower By the wild Alps of romance; And who would reach its dainty leaves Takes life and death in chance.
THEY’VE builded wooden timber tracks, And a trolly with screaming brakes Noses into the secret bush, Into the birdless brooding bush,
I have returned into my land of day, And lo! it is not light! And she who claims my homage is betrayed. I went to furious fighting in far lands
The Last Port
I WROUGHT and battled and wept, near and afar I scanned the secret of the bud and star. Hill-road and desert, and the hurrying street
One year, two year, three year, four, Comes a khaki gentleman knocking at the door. 'Any little boys at home, send them out to me To train them and brain them in battles yet to be.'
Comments about Frank Wilmot
(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)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
THERE grows a white, white flower
By the wild Alps of romance;
And who would reach its dainty leaves
Takes life and death in chance.
There is a dark, dark cavern
Where a woman goes alone,
Takes hope and peril in her hand
And fights Death on his throne.
To our heart’s breathless calling
She comes from the cavern wild,
Holding in her exhausted arms
A small, white, blossoming child.