#john frederick freeman

[culturevulturette]

Last Hours

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

    The naked and stiff branches     Of oak, elm, thorn,     In the cold light are like men aged and     Forlorn.

    Only a gray sky,     Grass, trees, grass again,     And all the air a cloud that drips, drips,     All day.

    Lovely the lonely     Bare trees and green grass--     Lovelier now the last hours of slow winter     Slowly pass.

John Frederick Freeman

[richardanarchist]

Bring Your Beauty

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.

There was laughter once, there were grave, happy eyes, Talk of firm earth, old earth-sweeping mysteries: There were great silences under clear dark skies.

Now is silence, now is loneliness complete; all is done. The thrush sings at dawn, too sweet, up creeps the sun: But all is silent, silent, for all that was is done.

Yet bring beauty and bring laughter, and bring even tears, And cast them down; strew your happiness and fears, Then leave them to the darkness of thought and years.

Fears in that darkness die; they have no spring. Grief in that darkness is a bird that wants wing…. O love, love, your brightness, your beauty bring.

John Frederick Freeman

[beauteousthings]

Considering I’m on a massive Iliad jag at present, I want to delve into something related and beautiful and obscure: a poem by the rather unknown poet John Frederick Freeman (18180-1929) entitled “Hector”. Freeman was an insurance man by trade who wrote by night, and was good friends with the renowned Edward Thomas (a personal favourite) and Walter de la Mare. Few today now know Freeman or his work, and little is available online about him. But he was a gifted poet, and I hope you enjoy his “Hector” for its elegant imagery, quiet passion and flowing enjambement :)

“Hector”

[leblogdeozge]

   Your hands, your hands,    Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands.    O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,    That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose,    Your hands, your hands,    Fall upon mine, and my hands open as    That evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.    Your hands, your hands,    They are like towers that in far southern lands    Look at pale dawn over gloom-valley'd miles,    White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles.    Your hands, your hands,    With the south wind fall kissing on my brow,    And all past joy and future is summed in this great "Now!"

John Frederick Freeman / Hands

Mains d’amants / Rodin, Auguste / 1840–1917

[violettesiren]

All the night through I drank Sleep like water or cool cider; Life flowed over and I sank Down below the night of clouds.... Then on a pale horse was rider Through long brushing woods Where the owl in silence broods, Quavers, and is quiet again; Where the grass dark and rank Breathes on the still air its rain. Rain and dark and green and sound Closing slowly round Swept me as I rode, And rode on until I came Where a white cold river flowed Under woods thin and bare In the moon's long candle flame. Through the woods the wind crawled Leviathan, and here and there Branches creaked and old winds howled Sick for home. All the night I saw the river, As a girl that sees beside her Love, between fear and fear Riding, and is dumb. The white horse turned to cross the river, But the waters like a wall Rose and hung dark over all; And as they fell the river wider Wider grew, and sky was bare Save of the sick candle's stare. Death the divider Glittered cold and dark and deep Under banks of fear. But that rider Trembling, bright, rode on, Trembling and bright rode on Through green lanes of sleep.

The Bright Rider by John Frederick Freeman

[violettesiren]

O linger late, poor yellow whispering leaves!             As yet the eves Are golden and the simple moon looks through             The clouds and you. O linger yet although the night be blind,             And in the wind You wake and lisp and shiver at the stir             And sigh of her Whose rimy fingers chill you each and all:             And so you fall As dead as hopes or dreams or whispered vows....             O then the boughs That bore your busy multitude shall feel             The cold light steal Between them, and the timorous child shall start,             Hearing his heart Drubbing affrighted at the frail gates, for lo,             The ghostly glow Of the wild moon, caught in the barren arms Of leafless branches loud with night's alarms!

Foreboding by John Frederick Freeman

[violettesiren]

The shadow of the lantern on the wall, The lantern hanging from the twisted beam, The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all. The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate, The far train, the slow echo in the coombe, The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all. The loveliness that is the secret shape Of once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness, The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all.... A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through, And makes substantial insubstantial seem, And shapes immortal mortal as a dream; And eye and brain flicker as shadows do Restlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.

Shadows by John Frederick Freeman

[violettesiren]

Against the cold pale sky The elm tree company rose high. All the fine hues of day That flowered so bold had died away. Only chill blue, faint green, And deepening dark blue were seen. There swinging on a bough That hung or floated broad and low. The lamp of evening, bright With more than planetary light, Was beautiful and free-- A white bird swaying on the tree. You watched and I watched, Our eyes and hearts so surely matched. We saw the white bird leap, leap Shining in his journey steep Through that vast cold sky. Our hearts knew his unuttered cry-- A cry of free delight Spreading over the clustering night. Pole Hill grave and stark Stared at the valley's tidal dark, The Darent glimmered wan; But that eager planet winging on, And singing on, went high Into the deeps and heights of sky. And our thoughts rising too Brightened the mortal darkness through Trembled and danced and sang Till the mute invisible heavens rang.

Against The Cold Pale Sky by John Frederick Freeman