As high as a cloud wandering on Bristol’s tower
Forever will I sing his name
Fruitfully brought me to his finest hour
Forever a great organ plays its pain
Will I go no more to St Mary Redcliffe?
A fine repose now in a sea of modernity
In whose gothic ramparts held religious community
Sang a song worth, ten men, when Chatterton’s voice could be heard
To London went he for a new life
Though not soon after his spirit wandered back to Bristol
Along those Roman roads from which he came
There he found the chancel in Redcliffe, which bears his name
Where Thomas sits and writes forevermore, no longer in pain
By Samuel Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 