The Fugitive

In the hush of early even
The clouds came flocking over,
Till the last wind fell from heaven
And no bird cried.

Darkly the clouds were flocking,
Shadows moved and deepened,
Then paused; the poplar's rocking
Ceased; the light hung still

Like a painted thing, and deadly.
Then from the cloud's side flickered
Sharp lightning, thrusting madly
At the cowering fields.

Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,
Down the hill slow thunder trembled;
Day in her cave grew frightened,
Crept away, and died.

John Frederick Freeman

John Frederick Freeman was a British poet, notable as a Georgian poet. He was born in London and worked initially as an office boy and later as a clerk before gaining recognition for his poetic works. Freeman primarily wrote about nature, identity, and the human condition. Over the course of his literary career, he published several books of poetry, and his works were praised for their sincerity and technical excellence. His notable collections include 'Presage of Victory' and 'Stone Trees.'

John Frederick Freeman

Moon-Bathers

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

The Alde

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

The Men Who Loved The Cause That Never Dies

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

The Shade

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

English

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The Escape

Like one who runs
Fearful at night, he knows not why,
Dreading the loneliness, yet shuns
The highway's casual company;

Wherefore he hastes,
The friendly gloom of ancient trees
Unheeding, and the shining wastes
Lying broad and quiet as the seas;

The beauty of night
Hating for very fear, until
Beyond the bend a lowly light
Beams single from a lowly sill;

And the poor fool,
Flying the sacred, solemn dark,
Leaves gladly the large, cool
Night for that serviceable spark;

And thankful then
To have 'scaped the peril of the way,
Turns not his timid steps again
That night, but waits the common day;--

So I, as weak,
Have fled the great hills of Thy love,
Too faint to hear what Thou dost speak,
Too feeble wi...

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The Unthrift

Here in the shade of the tree
The hours go by
Silent and swift,
Lightly as birds fly.
Then the deep clouds broaden and drift,
Or the cloudless darkness and the worn moon.
Waking, the dreamer knows he is old,
And the day that he dreamed was gone
Is gone.

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The Fugitives

    O fugitive fragrances
    That tremble heavenward
    Unceasing, or if ye linger,
    Halt but as memories
    On the verge of forgetfulness,
    Why must ye pass so fleetly
    On wings that are less than wind,
    To a death unknowable?
    Soon ye are gone, and the air
    Forgets your faint unrest
    In the garden's breathlessness,
    Where fall the snows of silence.

Clark Ashton Smith

The Fugitive

    Flying his hair and his eyes averse,
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.
    How could our song his charms rehearse?
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    High on a down we found him last,
    Shy as a hare, he fled as fast;
    How could we clasp him or ever he passed?
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    How could we cling to his limbs that shone,
    Ravish his cheeks' red gonfalon,
    Or the wild-skin cloak that he had on?
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    For the wind of his feet still straightly shaping,
    He loosed at our breasts from his eyes escaping
    One crooked swift glance like a javelin leaping.
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    And his feet passed over the ...

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Kestrel

In a great western wind we climbed the hill
And saw the clouds run up, ride high and sink;
And there were shadows running at our feet
Till it seemed the very earth could not be still,
Nor could our hearts be still, nor could we think
Our hearts could ever be still, our thought less fleet
Than the dizzy clouds, less than the flying wind.
Eastward the valley and the dark steep hill
And other hills and valleys lost behind
In mist and light. The hedges were not yet bare
Though the wind picked at them as he went by.
The woods were fire, a fire that dense or clear
Burned steady, but could not burn up the shadows
Rooted where the trees' roots entangled lie,
In darkness; or a flame burned solitary
In the middle of the highest of brown meadows,
Burned solitary and unco...

John Frederick Freeman

The Fugitive

His shatterd Empire thunders to the ground:
A myriad hearts peal laughter as it falls,
While red flags flutter on its ruined walls
And living joy darts all the world around.
The imperial criminal, naked and uncrowned,
Breathing a shuddering air of curses, crawls,
Baffled and beaten, from his gorgeous halls,
While Vengeance halloos lapdog, cur and hound.

Behold the arrogant humbled, and rejoice
The grasping hand holds naught but flying dust,
And Envy meets the pitiless grin of Fate.
Take warning of your own hearts inward voice,
Bid your own soul be humble and distrust
The yelping promises of greed and hate.

John Le Gay Brereton