Part 1

FAREWELL

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

A GLOUCESTERSHIRE LAD AT HOME AND ABROAD. [_Sixth Impression._

GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS: Poems from a German Prison Camp. [_Third Impression._

DUCKS, AND OTHER VERSES.

COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY: A Record of Life in Seven German Prisons. Illustrated by C. E. B. Bernard.

SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.

FAREWELL

BY F. W. HARVEY

AUTHOR OF “A GLOUCESTERSHIRE LAD” “GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS” ETC., ETC.

LONDON SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 1921

PREFACE

In spite of all the soulful utterances of people comfortably off, economic independence remains the first condition of happiness.

This is not to say that people aren’t great fools for preferring law to literature. It is rather to imply that a poet who can do both is a fool if _he_ does not.

I am not a fool.

Farewell!

F. W. H.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author desires to acknowledge gratefully permissions to reprint certain of these poems granted by the editors of _The Spectator_, _The Athenæum_, _The London Mercury_, _The Nation_, _The Woman’s Leader_, _The Gloucestershire Chronicle_ and _The Gloucestershire Journal_.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE 5

NATURE POEMS

PRAYERS: I. 11

” II. 12

” III. 13

” IV. 14

THE HOLLOW LAND 15

ON BIRDLIP 16

OUT OF THE CITY 17

A SONG 18

MAY-FLOOD 18

BIG THINGS AND SMALL 19

AFTER LONG WANDERING 20

THE MOON 22

THE WIND’S GRIEF 23

A WINDY NIGHT 24

RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE 25

GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN 26

LASSINGTON 27

JEALOUSY 28

ELVERS 29

JOHN HELPS 32

LOVE POEMS

THE GOLDEN SNAKE 33

IN A CATHEDRAL 34

THE LANTHORN 35

SONNET: “MY NATIVE LAND IS ONLY WHERE YOU ARE” 36

SINCE I HAVE LOVED 37

SAFETY 38

HAPPY SINGING 39

SONG 40

IDENTITY 41

JUNE 42

SONNET: “THAT DEATH SHALL TAKE AND SLAY ME MATTERS NOT” 43

SONNET: “BUT NOW SINCE DEATH HATH CERTAIN DATE” 44

“LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED” 45

MY JOY 46

THE WATCHING MOON 46

HARVEST HOME 47

POEMS OF REFLECTION

EXPERIMENTS IN VERS LIBRE 48

THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB 50

MISERERE DOMINE 52

NOW, IF I WERE RICH 53

THE RABBLE FATES--TO HELL WITH THEM! 54

THE LAUGHTER OF LITTLE BABIES 55

PETITION TO THE ALMIGHTY 56

LAST WORD 57

VANITY OF VANITIES 58

TRIOLET: “FLESH TRIUMPHS AWHILE” 61

FIRE (REVISED VERSION) 62

THE LIFE THAT’S UNDER THE GROUND 66

EPITAPH 67

INVOCATION--AND REPLY 68

MADNESS 70

GLOUCESTERSHIRE MEN 71

BALLADE OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE TOWNS 72

LUCKY 74

CAROL 75

GOD’S BEAUTY IN THE SKY 76

THE LOST WORLD 77

PROSE POEMS

DAWN 78

THE VISIBLE WORLD 78

FUEL 78

BLOW, INVISIBLE MOUTHS! 78

ANGRY LOVER 79

HOME 79

LOVE SONG 79

THE WINDOW 80

BROTHERS 80

HOLY BROTHERHOOD 80

_NATURE POEMS_

PRAYERS

I

THAT MY EYES MAY BE MADE TO SEE

God of bright colours: rainbows, peacocks, And the shot-silk gleam of springing Wind-shaken wheat On rolling red-ribbed Earth: Thou Who dost bring to birth From out the womb Of darkness golden flowers, Filling the hollows With daffodils in March, Cowslips in April, Dog-roses in May, Who in the smouldering forest Makes the huge Red flare of Autumn: God of all the colours On Earth, and hues (too bright for mortal eyes) In Paradise-- Unblind me to Thy glory, That I may see!

II

THAT MY SOUL MAY BE SET TO DANCE

God of light dancing: Waves and ripples In foam and forest, And shadows under leaves, Lambs leaping, prancing, Horses, dragon-flies, Stars ... Thou Whose eye perceives How and in what dream-ecstasy tall reeds Shake out brown hair and sway Like dusky girls Tranced in an Indian air; Who knowest the way Of clouds Which glide o’er blue unflowered fields, Scattering shadows On golden meadows And fields of dancing daisies: Teach me, O Lord, The rhythm of that joy which is Thy mind! Make my soul dance!

III

THAT I MAY BE TAUGHT THE GESTURE OF HEAVEN

God of the steadfast line, Who laid the curving Cotswolds on the sky: God of the hills, And of the lonely hollows in the hills, And of the cloudy nipples of the mountains: Teach me thy passionate austerity! God of elm twigs And of all winter trees Etched ebony on sunset, or bright silver Upon hard morning heavens; Cunning shaper of ferns, And ferns which whitely gleam on frosty windows And snow-flakes: God of the naked body beautifully snatched To some swift-gestured loveliness of Heaven: Master Of stars, And all beneath most passionately curbed In Form: catch up my sprawling soul and fix it In gesture of its lost divinity!

IV

THAT I MAY BE GIVEN FELLOWSHIP OF ANGELS AND A HAPPY HEART

God of fine fellowship in heaven and earth, O let me share A little of the gaiety of saints. Sometimes let angels carelessly with robins Sing in these Minsterworth trees. Teach me that mirth, Give me that happy heart, hating the thin Blasphemous gravity of wicked men.

THE HOLLOW LAND

Elms on the marbled sky Walling this hollow land, Write something black that I Find hard to understand.

Belshazzar in his hall, Belshazzar and those lords Saw suddenly on the wall Great crooked words:

A doom, a doom of fear ... Something our hearts forget Is mighty still and near To claim his debt.

Behold before it falls-- Behold the mighty hand Of Nature on the walls Of the hollow land!

ON BIRDLIP

I’ve tramped a score of miles to-day And now on Cotswold stand, Wondering if in any way Their owners understand How all those little gold fields I see And the great green woods beyond Have given themselves to me, to me Who own not an inch of land.

Because I loved with deep desire, Wooing all as I walked, This noble country by tree and spire Taught (as if music talked) How Beauty is never bought or sold, But freely given to them Who worship more than crowns of gold Her dew-bright diadem.

_Now_ all that under open heaven I see of arable Or pasture land to me is given, As runs the parable-- “To him that hath not----” Even so, For all we love is ours While the little streams of Cotswold flow, Swaying forget-me-not flowers.

OUT OF THE CITY

Here in the ring of the hills, Under a cloudy sky, Content at last I lie Where Peace o’erspills Like a cool rain which giveth This brave daisy scent And wine of sacrament Whereby he liveth.

The big hooters may howl, Men quarrel, whistles screech, I will hear only the speech Of my forgotten soul, Which is the speech of trees, Soft yet of clarity And brimmed with verity And all gay peace.

A SONG

O, Cranham ways are steep and green And Cranham woods are high, And if I was that black rook, It’s there that I would fly.

But since I’m here in London town, A silly walking man; I’ll make this song and caw it As loudly as I can.

MAY-FLOOD

Now the Spring’s cold Foam-crested waves, the bright Hedges, delay To break and quench the light Of golden fields with spray Of hawthorn. As of old Men saw the steep Walls of the Red Sea round them, Quiet sheep Watch the wild hedge forbear to drown them.

BIG THINGS AND SMALL

This spinning spark in space--our Earth and all Its vast envelopment of ancient night-- Is not a wonder greater or less than the white Blossom now in the orchards, soon to fall.

And let men learn the secret of that bloom And all its beauty’s wonder, they shall know Life to the core; and they with God may go To make a daisy or the day of doom.

AFTER LONG WANDERING

I will go back to Gloucestershire, To the spot where I was born, To the talk at eve with men and women And song on the roads at morn. And I’ll sing as I tramp by dusty hedges Or drink my ale in the shade How Gloucestershire is the finest home That the Lord God ever made.

First I will go to the ancient house Where Doomsday book was planned, And cool my body and soul in shade Of pillars huge which stand Where the organ echoes thunder-like Its paean of triumph and praise In a temple lovely as ever the love Of Beauty’s God did raise.

Gargoyles will thrust out heads to hearken, A frozen forest of stone Echo behind me as I pass Out of the shadow alone To buzz and bustle of Barton Fair And its drifting droves of sheep, To find three miles away the village Where I will sleep.

Minsterworth, queen of riverside places (Save Framilode, who can vie?), To her I’ll go when day has dwindled And the light low in the sky; And my troubles shall fall from me, a bundle, And youth come back again, Seeing the smoke of her houses and hearing The talk of Minsterworth men.

I’ll drink my perry and sing my song Of home and home again, Pierced with the old miraculous pleasure Keen as sharpest pain; And if I rise to sing on the morrow Or if I die in my bed, ’Tis all the same: I’ll be home again, And happy alive or dead.

THE MOON

What have you not seen, Old White-face, looking down Since the heavens were hollowed out And winds were blown?

You saw white Helen On the walls of Troy Town, You silvered dew on the ruin When Troy shook down.

Ulysses you saw And the strange seas that bore him; But all he wandered to see You had seen before him.

Bodies black and yellow, Gold tresses and brown, The brown earth covers them ... And you look down.

THE WIND’S GRIEF

The wind is grieving. Over what old woe Howls it as though Its very heart would break?-- The roving wind who merrily did make A song all day in woods and meadows gay Grieves in the night.

Is it for olden evil it hath done ’Neath moon and sun Since first it roved the world? Brave trees uprooted, ships and sailors hurled To stormy death? or for the passing breath Of flowers bright?

A WINDY NIGHT

The rain is done; and a great wind, Filling the hollow night, He shouts like a boy in an archway And whistles with all his might.

He has blown the sky empty, Except for the little stout Stars, and they are flickering As if they might go out.

All the black trees are crying; The night is full of noise; They are shouting under the arch of heaven Like a school of rowdy boys.

RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE

The wains be unloaded, the ricks be in stack-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; An’ varmer be merry, an’ me an’ Jack Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam.

There’s wuts for the horses and hay for the cow-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; And wheat for bread, and barley for brew-- Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam

Young randy lovers may praise the Spring-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; But this be the time ver to dance and sing Riddle cum Ruddle! Riddle cum Ruddle! Riddle cum Ruddle! The harvest’s whoam!

GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN

The golden fields wheel round-- Their spokes, green hedges; And at the galloping sound Of the train, from watery sedges Arise familiar birds.

Pools brown, and blue, and green, Criss-crossed with shadows, Flash by, and in between Gloucestershire meadows Lie speckled red with herds.

A little flying farm, With humped grey back Against the rays that warm To gold a last-year stack, Like a friendly cat appears;

And so through gloom and gleam Continues dwindling, While in my heart a dream Of home awakes to kindling Fire, and falling tears.

LASSINGTON

To Lassington the priests went out From Gloucester long ago To worship oaks and fool about With mistletoe.

Now after twenty centuries Still men and girls do go Lassington way. To worship trees? You ask,--ah no!

They laugh the magic boughs beneath, Catch hands, and kiss the while: And the dead Druids grind their teeth Below, or smile

To see (ah, fair beneath the bough The fretted moonlight lies!) How readily come the victims now To sacrifice.

How, robed in moonlight’s ancient gold, Another god doth reign, Tormenting men as did their old Grey gods of Pain.

JEALOUSY

On Zunday marn dro’ varmer’s wheat I zeed the print and track o’ veet: If I’d a had a rook-gun then They vaur veet would’n a walked again.

Two on ’em--they o’ the larger zize-- I coulden praperly reckernize. Two wer the purty-printed veet O’ Molly--zo valse as she be sweet.

I hadn’t no bird-gun: zo it fell As I maun laugh--ho, ho!--and tell Here in a pub at the end o’ the street O’ the winding--ha! ha!--o’ they vaur veet.

But may the zoul o’ him as wore They hob-nails roast vor evermore; And the veet wi’ the instep’s purty curve May both on ’em get what um deserve!

ELVERS

Up the Severn River from Lent to Eastertide Millions and millions of slithy elvers glide, Millions, billions of glassy bright Little wormy fish, Chewed-string fish, Slithery dithery fish, In the dead of the night.

Up the gleaming river miles and miles along Lanterns burn yellow: old joke and song Echo as fishermen dip down a slight Wide frail net, Gauzy white net, Strong long net In the water bright.

From the Severn river at daybreak come Hundreds of happy fishermen home With bags full of elvers: perhaps that’s why We all love Lent, Lean mean Lent, Fishy old Lent, When the elvers fry.

When elvers fry for breakfast with egg chopped small And bacon from the side that’s hung upon the wall. When the dish is on the table how the children shout “O, what funny fish, Wormy squirmy fish, Weeny white fish, Our mother’s dishing out!”

Eels have a flavour (and a baddish one) of oil. “When we have shuffled _down_ their mortal coil, What dreams may come!” what horrid nightmares neigh, Gallop or squat, Trample or trot, Vanishing not Till break of day!

“Never start nothing,” says the motto in our pub: “It might lead to summat”: that’s (as Shakespeare said) the rub! So I’m not going to tell you, anyway not yet, If the elvers are eels, White baby eels, Tiny shiny eels, Caught with a net--

Or another quite separate wriggly kind of grub, For I’ve seen more fights over that outside a pub Than ever _you_ saw at Barton Fair when Joe The brown gipsy man, The tawny gipsy man, The tipsy gipsy man, Tried to smart up the show.

But anyway, good people, you may search the river over Before a breakfast tastier or cheaper you discover Than elvers, and if all the year the elver season lasted I wouldn’t mind a bit, I wouldn’t care a bit, Not a little tiny bit, _How_ long I fasted!

JOHN HELPS

John Helps a wer an honest mon; The perry that a made Wer crunched vrom purs as honest As ever tree displayed.

John Helps a wer an honest mon; The dumplings that a chewed Wer made vrom honest apples As Autumn ever growed.

John Helps a wer an honest mon, And I be sorry a’s dead. Perry and honest men be scarce These days, ’tiz zed.

_LOVE POEMS_

THE GOLDEN SNAKE

Her body’s glory is a golden snake Around Life’s tree Coiled: the tree shall break In the blast of Eternity And the coil be crushed.

Too late! immortal poison has rushed Through more-than-veins. Beauty remains Though bodies rot. The fang (Though flesh the pang To flesh deliver) Strikes down more deep Than flesh, to trouble Even the ultimate sleep, The eternal dream.

Though all she seem To be, like a golden bubble Shall break at the prick of Death, This shall not break: Her beauty’s sting: sharp as the sting of a snake: The sting of Beauty failing not with breath.

IN A CATHEDRAL

From her sweet unrest and sting Hither I come. The cloisters like a frozen forest ring, Echoing back more faint and faintlier The tread of living. Home, Home flies the spirit. Faint and faintlier The surging waves of passion break to foam

Then like a clash of cymbals suddenly She, slave of Time, O’ercomes all tokens of Eternity, Nay, rather with Eternity is made one, One with recurrent rhyme Of arch, with flash of window, with the sun Yellow on lofty walls sweet echoes climb.

THE LANTHORN

“I never saw a soul save in the body.”

Haply within the woods of Paradise We see unblinded of our earthly eyes, Kiss with unthwarted lips, and taste our one Desired and complete communion.

There scabbards that do sheath the gleaming blade, There globes which muffle in the naked light Aside being cast, naked and unafraid, Lovers may stand in one another’s sight.

Now since through fleshly glass Thy flame, O Love, Shines clear, and nowhere else doth visibly move; That lanthorn bright I will bow down before, Kneeling the crystal body to adore.

SONNET

My native land is only where you are, You are my home, my roof-tree, hearth, and fire. I have been home-sick for you, wandering far, But now have reached the end of my desire. You are my kingdom small and very fair, Your breasts my snowy hills, my lakes your eyes, Your face my garden, and my woods your hair, Your breath the breeze of that sweet Paradise.

Lie fenced within the circle of these arms, Dear country: you whose air to breathe is Peace, Peace deeper than Death, more soft than Night-- Soother of griefs. Here, safe from wild alarms, I’ll bide, plucking from off your sighing trees The fruit of dreams, red apples of delight.

SINCE I HAVE LOVED

Since I have loved, I have put the world in my heart. The great clouds scattering over Cotswold seem But shadows of those others counterpart: Those clouds standing over hills of dream-- Hills of dream in a country that is called Peace--a country by my own heart walled.

Since I do love and bear you in my breast, Who are both my beloved country and its queen, I wonder not to see red dawn uprise. I say no more how restful is the green Of summer fields, for looking on your eyes It is as though I had died and found my rest.

SAFETY

You are like a pool reflecting shadowy trees Of green and glint of sunbeams mixed together (And I had forgotten both) in water clear.

Full of the foulness of blood and lust and fear Is the past now. I break its holding tether, And stand once more with guiding Innocences.

You are like silence in which I can be myself. You are the truth of music: something lost Ages and ages ago, and forgotten, and found.

Ere death my feet are set upon holy ground, I, wanderer amid a wandering host, Come home, led by the magic of one sweet elf.

HAPPY SINGING

Men have made songs, And I among them, Because some hell Of grief had wrung them. The tolling bell Will often bring Torture to force A man to sing.

But I this day A song will make Only for joy And my sweet love’s sake: And will employ No sorrowful thing For making of it,-- That song, I’ll sing.

But lovely laughter Of singing thrushes When dawn has broken And heaven flushes, Shall be the token Of one whom days Nor death can rob Of joyous praise.

SONG

And in the evening when I walked apart For joy of that I carry in my heart, The song I made brave thrushes did complete, Shouting, “O, pretty Joy!” and “Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!”

This is my glory, this the crown of me: That I hold joy of my love, and she of me; And though my song be but a breath of air, Yet is it greater than death and all despair.

For howso poor and of what base estate I be, this love shall make me proud and great. And howso deep in care I lie, there are words Shall build my heart a nest of singing birds.

IDENTITY

I am the blood that burns, The flesh that dies, The haunted heart that turns To Paradise, The soul that laugheth low And whispereth There are sweet things to know After--Death.

Such powers am I, and more Both good and bad; Nor all the learnéd lore Solomon had Could ill and good dissever. Yet this is true: Naught’s me that doth not ever Cleave to you.

JUNE

April was in your making--youth of the year, Wild-blooded, beautiful! And May with flowers And showers agleam went into you, my dear.