Frederick William (FW) Harvey
Frederick William Harvey was an English poet, known for poems composed in prisoner-of-war camps at Krefeld and Gütersloh that were sent back to England, during World War I.
He was born in Hartpury, Gloucestershire. He was educated at the King's School, Gloucester, where he formed a close friendship with Ivor Gurney, and then at Rossall School. Gurney and Herbert Howells, another local composer, would set a number of his poems to music.
He started on a legal career, which would always be somewhat tentative. He became a Roman Catholic convert in 1914, and shortly after joined the Gloucestershire Regiment as a private soldier, as World War I broke out.
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Frederick William (FW) Harvey Poems
(To E.M., Who drew them in Holzminden Prison) I
God dreamed a man; Then, having firmly shut Life like a precious metal in his fist Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin
I'm homesick for my hills again - My hills again! To see above the Severn plain, Unscabbarded against the sky,
A Christmas Wish
I CAN NOT give you happiness : For wishes long have ceased to bring The Fortune which to page and king They brought in those good centuries,
No mortal comes to visit me to-day, Only the gay and early-rising Sun Who strolled in nonchalantly, just to say, ' Good morrow, and despair not, foolish one ! '
Christmas in Prison
Outside, white snow And freezing mire. The heart of the house Is a blazing fire !
To the Unknown Nurse
Moth-like at night you flit or fly To where the other patients lie ; I hear, as you brush by my door The flutter of your wings, no more.
THE OLDEST INHABITANT HEARS FAR OFF THE...
Sometimes 'tis far off, and sometimes 'tis nigh, Such drummerdery noises too they be ! 'Tis odd — oh, I do hope I baint to die Just as the summer months be coming on,
What we Think of
Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo, We think of things that we have done, and things we mean to do : Of girls we left behind us, of letters that are due,
The Hateful Road
Oh pleasant things there be Without this prison yard : Fields green, and many a tree With shadow on the sward,
To You, Unsung
How should I sing you ? — you who dwell unseen Within the darkest chamber of my heart. What picturesque and inward-turning art Could shadow forth the image of my queen.
A Rondel of Gloucestershire
Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills, And in the Uttle valleys, thatch and dreams, Wrought by the manifold and vagrant wills Of sun and ripening rain and wind ; so gleams
Bodies of comrade soldiers gleaming white Within the mill-pool where you float and dive And lounge around part-clothed or naked quite; Beautiful shining forms of men alive,
Comments about Frederick William (FW) Harvey
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(To E.M., Who drew them in Holzminden Prison)
From troubles of the world I turn to ducks,
Beautiful comical things
Sleeping or curled
Their heads beneath white wings
By water cool,
Or finding curious things
To eat in various mucks
Beneath the pool,
Tails uppermost, or waddling
Sailor-like on the shores
Of ponds, or paddling
- Left! Right! - with fanlike feet
Which are for steady oars
When they (white galleys) float
Each bird a boat
Rippling at will the sweet
Wide waterway ...
When night is fallen you ...