Who is William Cosmo Monkhouse

William Cosmo Monkhouse (18 March 1840 – 20 July 1901) was a British poet and critic.

Biography Monkhouse was born and raised in London. His father, Cyril John Monkhouse, was a solicitor, and his mother's maiden name was Delafosse. Monkhouse was educated at St Paul's School, stopped his schooling at the age of seventeen to enter the board of trade as a junior supplementary clerk, from which grade he rose eventually to be the assistant-secretary to the finance department of the office. In 1870–71 he visited South America in connection with the hospital accommodation for seamen at Valparaíso, Chile, and other ports; he served on different departmental committees, notably that of 1894–96 on the Mercantile Marine Fund. Monkhouse was twice married: fi...
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Top 10 most used topics by William Cosmo Monkhouse

Young 9 Face 9 Heart 7 White 7 Deep 7 Sweet 7 Earth 6 Wild 6 God 6 Limerick 6

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Comments about William Cosmo Monkhouse

  • Northtrenton: happy birthday to christian friedrich hebbel (d. 1864), jacob bunn (d. 1897), antoine chanzy (d. 1883), randal cremer (d. 1908), grover cleveland (d. 1908), william cosmo monkhouse (d. 1901), stephane mallarme (d. 1898) and nikolai rimsky-korsakov (d. 1908).
  • Crankyuncle2: born otd 1840 william cosmo monkhouse, english poet and critic (d. 1901)
  • Book_addict: happy birthday to english writer and poet william cosmo monkhouse (march 18, 1840), author of the 1868 novel "a question of honour" et al.
  • Cobusb: "there was a young lady of niger who smiled as she rode on a tiger; they returned from the ride with the lady inside, and the smile on the face of the tiger." william cosmo monkhouse
  • Sgdamson: "there was a young lady from niger, who smiled as she rode on a tiger. they returned from the ride with the lady inside, and the smile on the face of the tiger." - william cosmo monkhouse
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Poem of the day

Alfred Lord Tennyson Poem
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, Yet We Trust That Somehow Goo
 by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final end of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

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