Who is Maurice Henry Hewlett

Maurice Henry Hewlett (1861 – 15 June 1923) was an English historical novelist, poet and essayist.

Biography

He was born at Weybridge, the eldest son of Henry Gay Hewlett, of Shaw Hall, Addington, Kent. He was educated at the London International College, Spring Grove, Isleworth, and was called to the bar in 1891. He gave up the law after the success of The Forest Lovers. From 1896 to 1901 he was Keeper of Lands, Revenues, Records and Enrolments, a government post as adviser on matters of medieval law.

Hewlett married Hilda Beatrice Herbert on 3 January 1888 in St Peter's Church, Vauxhall, where her father was the incumbent vicar. The couple had two children, a daughter, Pia, and a son, Francis, but separated in 1914, partly due to Hilda's increasing in...
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Maurice Henry Hewlett Poems

  • Hymnia-beatrix
    Before you pass and leave me gaunt and chill
    Alone to do what I have joyed in doing
    In your glad sight, suffer me, nor take ill
    If I confess you prize and me pursuing. ...
  • Alma Sdegnosa
    Not that dull spleen which serves i' the world for scorn,
    Is hers I watch from far off, worshipping
    As in remote Chaldaea the ancient king
    Adored the star that heralded the morn. ...
  • Presence
    When she had left us but a little while,
    I still could hear the ringing of her voice,
    Still see athwart the dusk her shy half-smile
    And that sweet trust wherein I most rejoice. ...
  • Snowy Night
    The snow lies deep, ice-fringes hem the thatch;
    I knock my shoes, my Love lifts me the latch,
    Shows me her eyes--O frozen stars, they shine
    Kindly! I clasp her. Quick! her lips are mine....
  • Gnatho
    Gnatho, Satyr, homing at dusk,
    Trotting home like a tired dog,
    By mountain slopes 'twixt the junipers
    And flamed oleanders near the sea, ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Maurice Henry Hewlett

Sweet 12 Face 9 High 9 White 9 Mind 8 Clear 7 Shame 7 Head 7 Blue 7 Earth 7


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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
...

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