When Childhood Died

I can recall the day
When childhood died.
I had grown thin and tall
And eager-eyed.

Such a false happiness
Had seized me then;
A child, I saw myself
Man among men.

Now I see that I was
Ignorant, surprised,
As one for the surgeon's knife
Anæsthetized.

So that I did not know
What loomed before,
Nor how, a child, I became
A child no more.

The world's sharpened knife
Cut round my heart;
Then something was taken
And flung apart.

I did not, could not know
What had been done.
Under some evil drag
I lived as one

At home in the seeming world;
Then slowly came
Through years and years to myself
And was no more the same.

I know now an ill thing was done
To a young child
By the world's wary knife
Maimed and defiled.

I can recall the day
Almost without anger or pain,
When childhood did not die
But was slain.

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

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John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

Revisitation

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

English

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Surely I must have ailed
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Or my childish courage failed
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With his chill wing,
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Or found him slumbering.
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And I was afraid of death,
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O, language no word hath
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Into my heart fear crawled
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Childhood.

What trifles touch our feelings, when we view
The simple scenes of Childhood's early day,
Pausing on spots where gather'd blossoms grew,
Or favour'd seats of many a childish play;
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Where oft we've crept and crept the shades among,
Where ivy hung old roots bemoss'd with grey,
Where nettles oft our infant fingers stung,
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Fear

There was a child that screamed,
And if it was the gathering tingling dark,
Or if it was the tingling silences
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Who knows?
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Who knows? for she knew not, but was afraid,
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To The Heavenly Power

When this burning flesh
Burns down in Time's slow fire to a glowing ash;
When these lips have uttered
The last word, and the ears' last echoes fluttered;
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As in the chemic air soft blackened stones;
When all that was mortal made
Owns its mortality, proud yet afraid;

Then when I stumble in
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What of me will change,
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Aching for these fingers
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The Undying

In thin clear light unshadowed shapes go by
Small on green fields beneath the hueless sky.
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--Until I slept or, musing, on a heap
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    Dust of my dust,
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