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
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
Not With These Eyes
Let me not see your grief! O, let not any see That grief, Nor how your heart still rocks
Wild heart, wild heart, Where does the wind find home? Wild heart, wild heart,
Than these November skies Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; Into their grey the subtle spies Of colour creep,
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,
The Red House
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.
Most comfortable Light, Light of the small lamp burning up the night, With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark; Pure golden perfect spark;
Distance no grace can lend you, but for me Distance yet magnifies your mystery. With you, and soon content, I ask how should
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
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
Alone And Cold
Do not, O do not use me As you have used others. Better you did refuse me: You have refused others.
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,
At The Dock
They loiter round the Dock that holds yon Ship Shuddering at the dark pool's defiled lip From springing bows to foam-deriding stern;
I Have Never Loved You Yet
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 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
Saint-like, and in the thought of your thought rest,
And pray for you and wish you happiness
In a better love than mine.'
I was another man to another woman,
Tears falling or burnt dry were nothing then.