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Francis Thompson (Sister Songs) hoped that his “nightingales” would continue to sing after his death, just as light would come from a star long after it had ceased to exist:

Oh! may this treasure-galleon of my verse,

Fraught with its golden passion, oared with cadent rhyme,

Set with a towering press of fantasies,

Drop safely down the time,

Leaving mine islèd self behind it far

Soon to be sunk in the abysm of seas,

(As down the years the splendour voyages

From some long ruined and night-submergèd star).

When I consider the shortness of my life, lost in an eternity before and behind, “passing away as the remembrance of a guest who tarrieth but a day,” the little space I fill or behold in the infinite immensity of spaces, of which I know nothing and which know nothing of me—when I reflect this, I am filled with terror, and wonder why I am here and not there, for there was no reason why it should be the one rather than the other; why now rather than then. Who set me here? By whose command and rule were this time and place appointed me? How many kingdoms know nothing of us! The eternal silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me.