Flora Thompson: published poet Find!

Flora Thompson View image is the author of 'Lark Rise to Candleford', recently popularised through a major television series.  She worked in the post office in Grayshott, east Hampshire just before 1900, alias the fictional 'Heatherley', aptly named for the purple carpeted commons and wooded valleys in the area.  She moved to Liphook, also in the east of the county in 1916 and started the 'Peverel Society', a postal writers circle.  They issued 'The Peverel Monthly' to members in which Flora included her own poetry.  Before the publication of her 'Lark Rise' biographical writings and her 'Peverel Papers' Flora Thompson was a published poet.  'Bog-Myrtle and Peat' was published in 1921 by Philip Allen & Co.  My thanks go to John Owen Smith, historian and writer, who lives in Headley Down, Hampshire and keeps the memory of Flora's work alive through a series of publications and lectures.

 

In her poetry Flora cites the landscape of Hampshire, indeed it forms a key theme.  In 'Home Thoughts from the Desert', echoing Robert Browning's famous poem, Flora conjures up images of nature during a storm, looking from sandy downs at Bratley in the New Forest over a tumultuous sea towards the distant Isle of Wight.  In nostalgia and reverie the last stanza reads ~

 

Amidst the desert sand and heat,

I hear the wheeling seabirds scream,

Scent the good smoke of burning peat,

Then wake and find but a dream -

Ah, Hampshire dear!

 

Readers can enjoy Flora's verse at John Owen Smith's informative websiteBut to provide a flavour here's 'August Again' in which she celebrates the landscape around Weavers Down and surrounding hills near Liphook.

 

THE heather flings her purple robe

  Once more upon the hill;

Beneath a shivering aspen-tree

  My Love lies cold and still;--

Ah, very deep my Love must sleep,

  On that far Flemish plain,

If he does not know that the heath-bells blow

  On the Hampshire hills again!

O, other maids take other men,

  And just a passing sigh

Will not disturb the lightest dream;

  But my poor heart would die

If so very deep my Love should sleep

  Beneath his foreign tree,

That he did not stir at the thought of her

  Who could love so faithfully!

 

 

3 August 2009 from Angela Hicken

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