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F. W. Harvey, full name Frederick William Harvey, was born on February 11, 1888, in Gloucestershire, England. He became known as a poet and soldier, with much of his poetry rooted in his experiences during World War I. Harvey’s life and work reflect the impact of war on the individual and the broader human condition, particularly the trauma and emotional burden carried by those who served.
Harvey’s early life was shaped by his love for nature and literature. Growing up in the countryside, he developed an appreciation for the natural world, which would later become a significant influence on his poetry. He attended Cheltenham College, where he excelled in literature and began to write poetry, often drawing inspiration from his rural surroundings. His literary influences were wide-ranging, with a particular fondness for Romantic poets such as Wordsworth, whose reverence for nature mirrored Harvey’s own sentiments.
When World War I broke out, Harvey enlisted in the British Army and became a second lieutenant in the Gloucestershire Regiment. He served on the Western Front, where he quickly experienced the horrors of trench warfare. Harvey’s experiences during the war were formative, and much of his poetry reflects the emotional weight of what he saw and endured. His most famous poem, The Men Who Went Away, written after the war, captured the loss and grief experienced by soldiers and their families. The poem resonated deeply with those affected by the war, offering a voice to the suffering that many could not articulate.
Harvey’s military career was marked by both courage and hardship. He was wounded in action during the war, and the experience had a lasting impact on him. After recovering, he returned to the front, where he continued to write poetry in the trenches. His poems from this period often reflect his disillusionment with war and the toll it took on the soldiers who fought in it. Despite the trauma he faced, Harvey remained deeply committed to his comrades, and his poetry often focused on their experiences rather than his own.
After the war, Harvey continued to write and publish poetry, though his literary output was more limited than during the war years. He found work as a teacher, and his poetry became more reflective, often dealing with themes of loss, memory, and the passage of time. Harvey’s post-war work did not receive as much attention as his wartime poems, but he remained a respected figure in literary circles, particularly for his contributions to war poetry.
F. W. Harvey’s legacy lies in his ability to capture the emotional depth of war and its impact on the human psyche. His poetry speaks to the resilience of the soldiers who fought in World War I and the ongoing struggle of those who survived. Harvey’s work continues to be appreciated for its straightforward, heartfelt approach to the realities of war, offering a poignant reflection on the sacrifices made during one of history’s most devastating conflicts. His poetry remains a testament to the strength and vulnerability of those who fought, and the enduring power of words to convey the deepest human emotions. Harvey died on February 18, 1957, but his voice as a poet of war continues to echo through the years.
You may learn more at the Poetry Archive and Wikipedia.
Ballad Of Army Pay
F.W. Harvey
In general, if you want a man to do a dangerous
job : —
To R.E.K.
F.W. Harvey
Dear, rash, warm-hearted friend.
So careless of the end,
Autumn In Prison
F.W. Harvey
Here where no tree changes,
Here in a prison of pine,
The Hateful Road
F.W. Harvey
Oh pleasant things there be
Without this prison yard :
Christmas In Prison
F.W. Harvey
Outside, white snow
And freezing mire.
The heart of the house
What We Think Of
F.W. Harvey
Walking round our cages like the lions at the
Zoo,
Sonnet
F.W. Harvey
Comrades of risk and rigour long ago
Who have done battle under honour’s name,
Hoped (living or shot down) some meed of fime,
Ballade
F.W. Harvey
Bodies of comrade soldiers gleaming white
Within the mill-pool where you float and dive
Solitary Confinement
F.W. Harvey
No mortal comes to visit me to-day,
Only the gay and early-rising Sun
In Flanders
F.W. Harvey
I’m homesick for my hills again –
My hills again!
To see above the Severn plain,
The Bugler
F.W. Harvey
God dreamed a man;
Then, having firmly shut
Life like a precious metal in his fist