Biography of John Freeman
John Frederick Freeman, (29 January 1880 – 23 September 1929), was an English poet and essayist, who gave up a successful career in insurance to write full time.
He was born in London, and started as an office boy aged 13. He was a close friend of Walter de la Mare from 1907, who lobbied hard with Edward Marsh to get Freeman into the Georgian Poetry series; with eventual success. De la Mare's biographer Theresa Whistler describes him as "tall, gangling, ugly, solemn, punctilious".
He won the Hawthornden Prize in 1920 with Poems 1909-1920. His Last Hours was set to music by Ivor Gurney.
John Freeman Poems
Not With These Eyes
Let me not see your grief! O, let not any see That grief, Nor how your heart still rocks
Happy Is England Now
There is not anything more wonderful Than a great people moving towards the deep Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor
Than these November skies Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; Into their grey the subtle spies Of colour creep,
It was a day All blue and lifting white, When I went into the fields with Frank To fly his kite.
All That I Was I Am
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.
Music comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep Dreamily, half asleep;
Against The Cold Pale Sky
Against the cold pale sky The elm tree company rose high. All the fine hues of day That flowered so bold had died away.
From Wear To Thames
Is it because Spring now is come That my heart leaps in its bed of dust? Is it with sorrow or strange pleasure
Take Care, Take Care
Bind up, bind up your dark bright hair And hide the smouldering sunken fire. Let it be held no more than fair,
Wild heart, wild heart, Where does the wind find home? Wild heart, wild heart,
Happy are they whom men and women love, And you were happy as a river that flows Down between lonely hills, and knows
More Than Sweet
The noisy fire, The drumming wind, The creaking trees, And all that hum
Just as this wood, cast on the snaky fire, Crushes the curling heads till smoke is thickened And the ash sinks beneath the billet's weight,
It Was The Lovely Moon
It was the lovely moon--she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted Faintly, faintlier afar.
At Evening's Hush
Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd,
Your joys from this fair hill
Through golden eves and still:
There sounds from yon dense quarry
A burden harsh and sorry.
No piping now, poor Shepherd.
Men strive with violent hand,
And anger stirs the bland