Eidola

By Frederic Manning

Eidola is a collection of poems by the Australian author Frederick Manning Many of these poems are written during the first world war. Although born in Sydney, New South Wales, Manning at this period was resident in England and joined the military after a few attempts failed because of ill-health. The poems he wrote for "Eidola" were mainly introspective, although written during service in 1917.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 4057664595539

Frederic Manning

Frederic Manning was born in Sydney, Australia in 1882. He moved to England in 1903 where he pursued a literary career, reviewing and writing poetry. He enlisted in 1915 in the Shropshire Light Infantry and went to France in 1916 as 'Private 19022.' The Shropshires saw heavy fighting on the Somme and Manning's four months there provided the background to Her Privates We. He died in 1935.

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Frederic Manning

Eidola

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4057664595539

Table of Contents

THE CHOOSERS

SACRIFICE

RELIEVED

For S. J. Kimm

REACTION

THE OLD CALVARY

To the Rev. D. L. Prosser

THE GUNS

THE SIGN

A SHELL

THE FACE

WIND

BOIS DE MAMETZ

For H. L.

THE TRENCHES

LEAVES

TRANSPORT

αὑτἁρκεια

EPIGRAM, R. B.

NOW

GROTESQUE

DESIRE

BLUE AND GOLD

GANHARDINE’S SONG

THE SOUL’S ANSWER

WINTER

To U. A. T.

THE FAUN

THE CUP

PAROLES SANS MUSIQUE

For Jelly d’Arànyi

DANAE

WORSHIP

TO A GIRL

(Miss E. F.)

EROS ATHANATOS

DEMETER MOURNING

THE LOST ANGEL

THE MOCKING SONG

THE MOTHER

MEDITATION

THE HONEY GATHERER

CROCUS SONG

For M. C.

THE IMAGE SELLER

SIMAETHA

For D. S. D.

TO THE UNKNOWN GODDESS

HURLEYWAYNE

For M. S.

TO SÀÏ

THE SHEPHERDS’ CAROL OF BETHLEHEM

PAST

THE BELOVED

(To the Countess of Kintore)

THE CHOOSERS

Table of Contents

O ye! Fragile, tremulous

Haunters of the deep glades,

Whose fingers part the leaves

Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,

Shall I see ye again?

Men have said unto me:

These are but flying lights and shadows,

Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,

The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,

Wind shadowing the clear pools.

But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:

Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!

So here cometh unto me

That cry from the rejoicing air:

Men are but shadows! And prone about me

I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,

Made solemn and holy by the night,

In the dead light o’ the moon:

Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,

As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,

Egypt’s and Asia’s kings.

While between them are the footsteps

Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one

To be a sword upon my thigh!

And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur

As between them pass

The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.

Shall I see ye again, O flying feet

O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,

In a wet brake o’ blossom,

Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;

Ere I am torn from