James Elroy Flecker was born in London, England on November 5, 1884. He was the eldest child of W.H. Flecker, the headmaster of the Dean Close School. Flecker would study oriental languages at Trinity College in Oxford and at Caius College in Cambridge. It would be in college that Flecker decided to work as a consulate. From 1910 to 1913, Flecker held a series of consular posts in Constantinople, Smyrna and Beirut. However, shortly after he started working as a consulate, Flecker was diagnosed with tuberculosis. This forced him to take several leaves to Switzerland and back home to England. On January 3, 1915 James Flecker passed on. He is buried in Cheltenham, England at the foot of the Cotswold hills. Flecker wrote several poems, non-fiction prose and plays. Both of his plays were published posthumously.


The Bridge of Fire. London: Elkin Matthews, 1907.
Thirty-Six Poems. London: Adelphi Press, 1910.
Forty-Two Poems. London: J.M. Dent, 1911.
The Golden Journey to Samarkand. London: Max Goschen, 1913.
The Old Ships. London: The Poetry Bookshop, 1915.
Collected Poems. (Editions of 1916, 1935, and 1946.)
The Last Generation. New Age Press, 1908.
The Grecians. London: J.M. Dent, 1910.
The Scholars’ Italian Book. London: David Nutt, 1911.
The King of Alsander. London: Max Goschen, 1913.
Collected Prose. London: G. Bell, 1920.
The Letters of J.E. Flecker to Frank Savery. London: Beaumont Press, 1926.
Some Letters from Abroad of James Elroy Flecker, with a few Reminiscences by Hellé Flecker and an Introduction by J.C. Squire. London: Heinemann, 1930.
Hassan. London: Heinemann, 1922.
Don Juan. London: Heinemann, 1925.

To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul though time and space
To greet you. You will understand.


yeap, this was one

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