The manuscript was sent on by the prison authorities of Crefeld without any obliteration or excision. This must be counted unto them for literary righteousness. Yet it would be difficult to imagine what the most stony-hearted German censor could resent in any one of Lieutenant Harvey’s poems, unless it might be a deep love for England and an overwhelming desire to be with his love again. Many unfortunates who have had dear ones imprisoned at Gütersloh, where most of these poems were written, and at other centres, are looking forward eagerly to the publication of this little book. If they expect to read descriptions of the life of the camp, or reflections upon the conduct of German gaolers, they will be disappointed. The circumstances of the case have made such revelations impossible. If they had been possible, it is still doubtful if they would have been made here. But it will be strange if such readers do not find better things than they expected. Transpose any other county of this land for Gloucestershire, or any other home for the tree-encircled house at Minsterworth, then they will learn what the best of England’s captive sons are thinking, and so take heart of grace from the true love-songs of a Gloucestershire soldier, written first and foremost for his mother. GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS CLOUD MESSENGERS You clouds that with the wind your warden Flying toward the Channel go, Or ever the frost your fruit shall harden To hail and sleet and driving snow, Go seek one sunny old sweet garden-- An English garden that I know. Therein perchance my Mother, straying Among her dahlias, shall see Your rainy gems in sunlight swaying On flower of gold and emerald tree. Then in her heart feel suddenly Old love and laughter, like sunshine playing Through tears of memory. LONELINESS Oh where’s the use to write? What can I tell you, dear? Just that I want you so Who are not near. Just that I miss the lamp whose blessèd light Was God’s own moon to shine upon my night, And newly mourn each new day’s lost delight: Just--oh, it will not ease my pain-- That I am lonely Until I see you once again, You--you only. AUTUMN IN PRISON Here where no tree changes, Here in a prison of pine, I think how Autumn ranges The country that is mine. There--rust upon the chill breeze-- The woodland leaf now whirls; There sway the yellowing birches Like dainty dancing girls. Oh, how the leaves are dancing With Death at Lassington! And Death is now enhancing Beauty I walked upon. The roads with leaves are littered, Yellow, brown, and red. The homes where robins twittered Lie ruin; but instead Gaunt arms of stretching giants Stand in the azure air, Cutting the sky in pattern So common, yet so fair.