John Frederick Freeman

Distance no grace can lend you, but for me Distance yet magnifies your mystery. With you, and soon content, I ask how should

Against the cold pale sky The elm tree company rose high. All the fine hues of day

Hateful it seems now, yet was I not happy? Starved of the things I loved, I did not know I loved them, and was happy lacking them.

Do not, O do not use me As you have used others. Better you did refuse me:

I did not say, "Yes, we had better part Since love is over or must be suppressed." I did not say, "I'll hold you in my heart

Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd, Your joys from this fair hill Through golden eves and still:

They loiter round the Dock that holds yon Ship Shuddering at the dark pool's defiled lip From springing bows to foam-deriding stern;

Hear me, O beeches! You That have with ageless anguish slowly risen From earth's still secret prison

I rose up with the sun And climbed the hill. I saw the white mists run

Bring your beauty, bring your laughter, bring even your fears, Bring the grief that is, the joy that was in other years, Bring again the happiness, bring love, bring tears.

I know how fire burns, How from the wrangling fumes Rose and amber blooms,

Of caterpillars Fabre tells how day after day Around the rim of a vast earth pot they crawled, Tricked thither as they filed shuffling out one morn

A late and lonely figure stains the snow, Into the thickening darkness dims and dies. Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,

I am that creature and creator who Loosens and reins the waters of the sea, Forming the rocky marge anon anew.

Come over, come over the deepening river, Come over again the dark torrent of years, Come over, come back where the green leaves quiver,

Most comfortable Light, Light of the small lamp burning up the night, With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark;

When first Love came, then was I but a boy Swept with delirium of undreamt joy. Now Love comes to a man serious with change

Thou shaking thy dark shadows down, Like leaves before the first leaves fall, Pourest upon the head of night

Winter is fallen On the wretched grass, Dark winds have stolen

Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright. She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars,

What is the soul? Is it the wind Among the branches of the mind? Is it the sea against Time's shore

She stands like one with mazy cares distraught. Around her sudden angry storm-clouds rise, Dark, dark! and comes the look into her eyes

O that I were Where breaks the pure cold light On English hills,

Nought is but beauty weareth, near and far, Under the pale, blue sky and lonely star. This is that quick hour when the city turns

A winter sky of pale blue and pale gold, Bare trees, a wind that made the wood-path cold, And one slow-moving figure, gray and old.

So fair, that all the morning aches With such monotony! So brief, that sadness breaks

Fair Eve, as fair and still As fairest thought, climbs the high sheltering hill; As still and fair

Surely I must have ailed On that dark night, Or my childish courage failed

There was a child that screamed, And if it was the gathering tingling dark, Or if it was the tingling silences

I "No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour," She cried. And I,

O linger late, poor yellow whispering leaves! As yet the eves Are golden and the simple moon looks through

Now the trees rest: the moon has taught them sleep, Like drowsy wings of bats are all their leaves, Clinging together. Girls at ease who fold

Is it because Spring now is come That my heart leaps in its bed of dust? Is it with sorrow or strange pleasure

Happy are they whom men and women love, And you were happy as a river that flows Down between lonely hills, and knows

O cover me, long gentle grasses, Cover me with your seeding heads, Cover me with your shaking limbs,

"Hallo, hallo!" impatiently he cried, And I replied, Sleepily, "Hallo--hallo!"

Your hands, your hands, Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands. O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,

I have found happiness who looked not for it. There was a green fresh hedge, And willows by the river side,

Bugle and battle-cry are still, The long strife's over; Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hill

There is not anything more wonderful Than a great people moving towards the deep Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor

"----He still'd All sounds in air; and left so free mine ears That I might hear the music of the spheres,

Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping on The still warm, tender cheek of night, And with her cloudy hair

Because the earth is vast and dark And wet and cold; Because man's heart wants warmth and light

When I came home from wanderings In a tall chattering ship, I thought a hundred happy things,

I have never loved you yet, if now I love. If Love was born in that bright April sky And ran unheeding when the sun was high,

I heard a voice upon the window beat And then grow dim, grow still. Opening I saw the snowy sill

I will ask primrose and violet to spend for you Their smell and hue, And the bold, trembling anemone awhile to spare

To make a fairer, A kinder, a more constant world than this; To make time longer

In that dark silent hour When the wind wants power, And in the black height

The birds return, The blossom brightens again the cherry bough. The hedges are green again

In those old days you were called beautiful, But I have worn the beauty from your face; The flowerlike bloom has withered on your cheek

Young as the Spring seemed life when she Came from her silent East to me; Unquiet as Autumn was my breast

It was the lovely moon--she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted

When through our bodies our two spirits burn Escaping, and no more our true eyes turn Outwards, and no more hands to fond hands yearn;

From far-off it came near Deep-charactered and clear, Until I saw the features close to mine

The rain beat on me as I walked, In the roadside it ran and muttered. It seemed the rain to the wind talked

A gray day and quiet, With slow clouds of gray, And in dull air a cloud that falls, falls

Let Honour speak, for only Honour can End nobly what in nobleness began. Nor hate nor anger may, though just their cause,

You were a gipsy as you bent Your dark hair over the black grate. Hardly the west light above the hill

There is a place of grass With daisies like white pools, Or shining islands in a sea

How green and strange the light is, Creeping through the window. Lying alone in bed,

Ah, bird singing late in the gloam While the evening shadow thickens, And the dizzy bat-wings roam,

The wild October sky Rises not so high, The tree's roots that creep

There is a garden where the seeded stems of thin long grass are bowed Beneath July's slow rains and heat and tired children's trailing feet; And the trees' neglected branches droop and make a cloud beneath the cloud,

Falls from her heaven the Moon, and stars sink burning Into the sea where blackness rims the sea, Silently quenched. Faint light that the waves hold

The noisy fire, The drumming wind, The creaking trees,

Music comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep

Thy hand my hand, Thine eyes my eyes, All of thee

The earth is purple in the evening light, The grass is graver green. The gold among the meadows darker glows,

I Eve goes slowly Dancing lightly

Unconscious on thy lap I lay, A spiritual thing, Stirless until the yet unlooked-for day

Let me not see your grief! O, let not any see That grief,

Than these November skies Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; Into their gray the subtle spies

Flesh and blood, bone and skin, Are the house that beauty lives in. Formed in darkness, grown in light

O hide me in Thy love, secure From this earth-clinging meanness. Lave my uncleanness

O thou, my Muse, Beside the Kentish River running Through water-meads where dews

The fire burns low Where it has burned ages ago, Sinks and sighs

So! the fierce acid licks the silver clean, Unwonted plain the superscription's seen Round the cleared head; the metal, virgin-bright,

Let no tears fall If then they fell not. If eyes told nothing,

When man first walked upright and soberly Reflecting as he paced to and fro, And no more swinging from wide tree to tree,

I Now come, And I that moment will forget you.

Yet when I am alone my eyes say, Come. My hands cannot be still. In that first moment all my senses ache,

If ever Thou didst love me, love me now, When round me beat the flattering vans of life, Kissing with rapid breath my lifted brow.

I Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head, How England honours all her thousand dead.

The red sun stared unwinking at the East Then slept under a cloak of hodden gray; The rimy fields held the last light of day,

If thou hast grief And passion vex the spirit that is in thee-- There was a stony beach

Where are you going with eyes so dull, You whose eyes were beautiful, You whose hair with the light was gay,

It is here--the lime-tree in the garden path, The lilac by the wall, the ivied wall That was so high, the heavy, close-leaved creeper,

Merrily shouted all the sailors As they left the town behind; Merrily shouted they and gladdened

O, what insect is it That burrows in the heart and frets The heart's near nerves,

The shadow of the lantern on the wall, The lantern hanging from the twisted beam, The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.

Not a dream brush your sleep, Not a thought wake and creep In upon your spirit's slumber;

The sea Was even as a little child that sleeps And keeps

They stood like men that hear immortal speech Moving among their branches, and like trees We stood and watched them, and in our still branches

Now the long-bearded chilly-fingered winter Over the green fields sweeps his cloak and leaves Its whiteness there. It caught on the wild trees,

I came to you quietly when you were lying In perfect midnight sleep. Your dark soft hair was all about your pillow,

The naked stars, deep beyond deep, Burn purely through the nerv'd night. Over the narrow sleep

Stay, thou desired one, stay! Brighten the curious darkness of the world. Cold through the chill dark swings the sleeping world,

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark. In that sharp light the fields did lie

Small yellow stones That, lifted, through my idle fingers fall Leaving a score--

The wind fought with the angry trees. All morning in immense unease They wrestled, and ruin strawed the ground,

I heard a boy that climbed up Dover's Hill Singing Sweet England, sweeter for his song. The notes crept muffled through the copse, but still

Bind up, bind up your dark bright hair And hide the smouldering sunken fire. Let it be held no more than fair,

So many were there talking that I heard Nothing at first quite plain, as I sat down; Until from this man's gibe and that keen word,

It stands there Tall and solitary on the edge Of the last hill, green on the green hill.

The wind has thrown The boldest of trees down. Now disgraced it lies,

How near I walked to Love, How long, I cannot tell. I was like the Alde that flows

O, my feet have worn a track Deep and old in going back. Thought released turns to its home

The undecaying yew has shed his flowers Long since in golden showers. The elm has robed her height

The dead white on the fields' dead white Turned the peace to misery. Tall bony trees their wild arms thrust

When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was, And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed, I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping now no more:

All the night through I drank Sleep like water or cool cider; Life flowed over and I sank

Away, away-- Through that strange void and vast Brimmed with dying day;

Is it the wind that stirs the trees, Is it the trees that scratch the wall, Is it the wall that shakes and mutters,

Time like a cloud Has risen from the East And whelmed the sky over

Like the tide--knocking at the hollowed cliff And running into each green cave as if In the cave's night to keep

The chair was made By hands long dead, Polished by many bodies sitting there,

It covered all The cold east wall, Its green, thin gold, purple, brown,

Cherry and pear are white, Their snows lie sprinkled on the land like light On darkness shed.

Love me not less Yet ease me of this fever, That in my wondering heart

I could not love if my thought loved not too, Nor could my body touch the body of you, Unless first in the dark night of the mind

Why dost thou, darksome Nightingale, Sing so distractingly--and here? Dawn's preludings prick my ear,

The angry wind That cursed at me Was nothing but an evil sprite

Like one who runs Fearful at night, he knows not why, Dreading the loneliness, yet shuns

Rose-bosom'd and rose-limb'd With eyes of dazzling bright Shakes Venus mid the twin'd boughs of the night;

From that warm height and pure, The peak undreamed of out of heavy air Rising to heaven more strange and rare;

Near the house flowed, or paused, the black Canal, Edged by the timber piles so black and tall. From the rotten fence I watched the horses pull

That is the earliest thing that I remember-- The narrow house in the long narrow street, Dark rooms within and darkness out of doors

It was a night of smell and dew When very old things seemed how new; When speech was softest in the still

In the hush of early even The clouds came flocking over, Till the last wind fell from heaven

Now speaks the wave, whispering me of you; In all his murmur your music murmurs too. O 'tis your voice, my love, whispering in

Your face has lost The clearness it once wore, And your brow smooth and white

Fair Trees, O keep from chattering so When I with my more fair do go Beneath your branches;

The roaming sheep, forbidden to roam far, Were stayed within the shadow of his eye. The sheep-dog on that unseen shadow's edge

The holy mountains, The gay streams, Heavy shadows,

Far off a lonely hound Telling his loneliness all round To the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;

At evening when the aspens rustled soft And the last blackbird by the hedge-nest laughed, And through the leaves the moon's unmeaning face

He stands on the kerb Watching the street. He's always watching there,

I am a river flowing round your hill, Holding your image in my lingering water, With imaged white clouds rising round your head;

In a great western wind we climbed the hill And saw the clouds run up, ride high and sink; And there were shadows running at our feet

It was a day All blue and lifting white, When I went into the fields with Frank

The lamp shone golden where she slept, Shining against deep-folded shadows. There was no stir but her slow breathing

For the last time, The last, last time, The last ...

O gone are now those eager great glad days of days, but I remember Yet even yet the light that turned the saddest of sad hours to mirth; I remember how elate I swung upon the thrusting bowsprits,

That lime tree on the distant rising ground (If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves Above the renewed green of wet August grass--

O come you down from the far hills Whereon you fought, triumphed and died, Men at whose names the quick blood thrills

Standing close by you In the cold light Of two tall candles

Where is that country? The unresting mind Like a lapwing nears and leaves it and returns. I know those unknown hill-springs where they rise,

Beneath the trees with heedful step and slow At night I go, Fearful upon their whispering to break

That other house, in the same crowded street, One red-tiled floor had, answering to my feet, And a bewildering garden all of light and heat.

She comes when I am grieving and doth say, "Child, here is that shall drive your grief away." When I am hopeless, kisses me and stirs

The pigeons, following the faint warm light, Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone, Then in the mist that's hastier than night

Gray were the rushes Beside the budless bushes, Green-patched the pond.

On the wide fields the water gleams like snow, And snow like water pale beneath pale sky, When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.

I heard the rumbling guns. I saw the smoke, The unintelligible shock of hosts that still, Far off, unseeing, strove and strove again:

How could I know, how could I guess That here was your great happiness-- In mine? And how could I know

I saw him as he went With merry voice and eye. I met him when he came

Thinking of these, of beautiful brief things, Of things that are of sense and spirit made, Of meadow flowers, dense hedges and dark bushes

Clear from the deep sky pours the moon Her silver on the heavy dark; The small stars blink.

The tall slaves bow if that capricious King But glances as he passes; Their dark hoods drawing over abashed faces

Loose me and let me go! I am not yours. I do not know

(11th November, 1918) I To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, light-hidden,

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars

Marlboro' and Waterloo and Trafalgar, Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes, Were strange names all, and all familiar;

How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

The days of these two years like busy ants Have gone, confused and happy and distressed, Rich, yet sad with aching wants,

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead.... How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead? Or though forgetting, sing--and she is dead?

They were like dreams that in a drowsy hour A sad old God had dreamed in loneliness of power. They were like dreams that in his drowsy mind

Oh, like a tree Let me grow up to Thee! And like a Tree

In thin clear light unshadowed shapes go by Small on green fields beneath the hueless sky. They do not stay for question, do not hear

Winter was weary. All his snows were failing-- Still from his stiff grey head he shook the rime Upon the grasses, bushes and broad hedges,

Here in the shade of the tree The hours go by Silent and swift,

For so long and so long had I forgot, Serenely busied With thousand things; at whiles desire grew hot

Between the beechen hill and the green down The valley pastures sink; And the green river runs through their warm green

I reached the cottage. I knew it from the card He had given me--the low door heavily barred, Steep roof, and two yews whispering on guard.

Frost in the air and music in the air, And the singing is sweet in the street. She wakes from a dream to a dream--O hark!

The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair, And cried, "Before thy flowers are well awake

Over the pool of sleep The night mists creep, Then faint thin light and then clear day,

Weave cunningly the web Of twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve! And at the slow day's ebb

In these green fields, in this green spring, In this green world of burning sweet That drives its sour from everything

That you might happier be than all the rest, Than I who have been happy loving you, Of all the innocent even the happiest--

Within the greenhouse dim and damp The heat floats like a cloud. Pale rose-leaves droop from the rust roof

The moon gave no light. The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white, From the soft south west.

Thy hill leave not, O Spring, Nor longer leap down to the new-green'd Plain. Thy western cliff-caves keep

When the south-west wind came The air grew bright and sweet, as though a flame Had cleansed the world of winter. The low sky

No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand, Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven's songs Would as an alien reach.... Ah, but how far

When this burning flesh Burns down in Time's slow fire to a glowing ash; When these lips have uttered

They talked of old campaigns, nineteen-fourteen And Mons and watery Yser, nineteen-fifteen And Neuve Chapelle, 'sixteen, 'seventeen, 'eighteen

Under the linden branches They sit and whisper; Hardly a quiver

Gentle as the air that kisses The splendid and ignoble with one breath, Gentle as obliterating Death--

I have seen that which sweeter is Than happy dreams come true. I have heard that which echo is

Rich in the waning light she sat While the fierce rain on the window spat. The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,

Lying beneath a hundred seas of sleep With all those heavy waves flowing over me, And I unconscious of the rolling night

Walking at eve I met a little child Running beside a tragic-featured dame, Who checked his blitheness with a quick "For shame!"

I can recall the day When childhood died. I had grown thin and tall

The clouds no more are flocking After the flushing sun; Bees end their long droning,

Wild heart, wild heart, Where does the wind find home? Wild heart, wild heart,

Came the same cuckoo's cry All day across the mead. Flitted the butterfly

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor see The heavenly Earth's felicity? I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost,

Following upon the faint wind's fickle courses A feather drifts and strays. My thought after her thought

You that were Half my life ere life was mine; You that on my shape the sign

From Swindon out to White Horse Hill I walked, in morning rain, And saw your shadow lying there.