To R.E.K.
Dear, rash, warm-hearted friend.
So careless of the end,
So worldly-foolish, so divinely-wise,
Who, caring not one jot
For place, gave all you'd got
To help your lesser fellow-men to rise.
Swift-footed, fleeter yet
Of heart. Swift to forget
The petty spite that life or men could show you :
Your last long race is won.
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Autumn in Prison
Here where no tree changes,
Here in a prison of pine,
I think how Autumn ranges
The country that is mine.
There — rust upon the chill breeze-
The woodland leaf now whirls ;
There sway the yellowing birches
Like dainty dancing girls.
Oh, how the leaves are dancing
With Death at Lassington !
And Death is now enhancing
Beauty I walked upon.
The roads with leaves are Uttered,
Yellow, brown, and red.
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Sonnet
Comrades of risk and rigour long ago
Who have done battle under honour's name,
Hoped (living or shot down) some meed of fime,
And wooed bright Danger for a thrilling kiss, —
Laugh, oh laugh well, that we have come to this !
Laugh, oh laugh loud, all ye who long ago
Adventure found in gallant company !
Safe in Stagnation, laugh, laugh bitterly.
While on this filthiest backwater of Time's flow
Drift we and rot, till something set us free !
Laugh like old men with senses atrophied,
Heeding no Present, to the Future dead,
Nodding quite foolish by the warm fireside
And seeing no flame, but only in the red
And flickering embers, pictures of the past : —
Life like a cinder fading black at last.
poem by Frederick William Harvey
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A Rondel of Gloucestershire
Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills,
And in the Uttle valleys, thatch and dreams,
Wrought by the manifold and vagrant wills
Of sun and ripening rain and wind ; so gleams
My country, that great magic cup which spills
Into my mind a thousand thousand streams
Of glory mellowing on the mellowing hills
And in the httle valleys, thatch and dreams.
O you dear heights of blue no ploughman tiUs,
O valleys where the curling mist upsteams
White over fields of trembhng daffodils.
And you old dusty little water-mills.
Through all my life, for joy of you, sweet thrills
Shook me, and in my death at last there beams
Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills
And in the Uttle valleys, thatch and dreams.
poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Solitary Confinement
No mortal comes to visit me to-day,
Only the gay and early-rising Sun
Who strolled in nonchalantly, just to say,
' Good morrow, and despair not, foolish one ! '
But like the tune which comforted King Saul
Sounds in my brain that sunny madrigal.
Anon the playful Wind arises, swells
Into vague music, and departing, leaves
A sense of blue bare heights and tinkling bells,
Audible silences which sound achieves
Through music, mountain streams, and hinted
heather,
And drowsy flocks drifting in golden weather.
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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The Bugler
God dreamed a man;
Then, having firmly shut
Life like a precious metal in his fist
Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin
Our various divinity and sin.
For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,
And others—dreaming empires—straightway cut
Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat
Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet
Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast
That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most
Did with it—simply nothing. (Here again
Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain
Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,
Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.
For me, I do but bear within my hand
(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)
A simple bugle such as may awaken
With one high morning note a drowsing man:
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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The Bond
Once, I remember, when we were at home
I had come into church, and waited late,
Ere lastly kneeling to communicate
Alone : and thinking that you would not come.
Then, with closed eyes (having received the Host)
I prayed for your dear self, and turned to rise ;
When lo ! beside me like a blessed ghost —
Nay, a grave sunbeam — you I Scarcely my eyes
Could credit it, so softly had you come
Beside me as I thought I walked alone.
Thus long ago ; but now, when fate bereaves
Life of old joys, how often as I'm kneeling
To take the Blessed Sacrifice that weaves
Life's tangled threads, so broken to man's seeing,
Into one whole ; I have the sudden feeling
That you are by, and look to see a face
Made in fair flesh beside me, and all my being
Thrills with the old sweet wonder and faint fear
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Warning
A man there was, a gentle soul,
Of mild enquiring mind,
Who came into this neighbourhood
Its wonders for to find [ … ]
They told him who had put the lid
On Lydney; who the ale
Misspelt in Aylburton. And he
Delighted in the tale.
And still, like little Oliver,
He softly asked for more;
And with the utmost courtesy
Was answered as before.
Until one sleepy summer's eve
He came all unaware
Unto a place called Ruardean,
And asked ‘Who killed the bear?'
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Ballade
Bodies of comrade soldiers gleaming white
Within the mill-pool where you float and dive
And lounge around part-clothed or naked quite;
Beautiful shining forms of men alive,
O living lutes stringed with the senses five
For Love's sweet fingers; seeing Fate afar,
My very soul with Death for you must strive;
Because of you I loathe the name of War.
But O you piteous corpses yellow-black,
Rotting unburied in the sunbeam's light,
With teeth laid bare by yellow Hps curled back
Most hideously; whose tortured souls took
flight
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Ballad of Army Pay
In general, if you want a man to do a dangerous
job : —
Say, swim the Channel, climb St. Paul's, or break
into and rob
The Bank of England, why, you find his wages
must be higher
Than if you merely wanted him to Fight the kitchen
fire.
But in the British Army, it's just the other
way.
And the maximum of danger means the minimum
of pay.
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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