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Ford Madox Ford

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Ford Madox Ford
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Ford Madox Ford was born Ford Hermann Hueffer on December 17, 1873, in Merton, England. The son of a German music critic and grandson of a Pre-Raphaelite painter, Ford published his first novel, The Shifting of Fire (T. F. Unwin, 1892), at age eighteen.

Often associated with the Imagist movement, Ford was the author of numerous poetry collections, including New Poems (William Edwin Rudge, 1927), Collected Poems (Max Goschen, 1914), High Germany (Duckworth, 1911), and The Face of the Night (J. Macqueen, 1904).

Ford was best known for his novels, particularly The Good Soldier: A Tale of Passion (John Lane, 1915), and for his works of literary criticism. In 1914, Ezra Pound wrote, “Mr. Hueffer is the best critic in England, one might say the only critic of any importance.”

The founder of the English Review, Ford is also remembered for his work publishing and encouraging his contemporaries. In the introduction to Collected Poems, he writes, “I have kept before me one unflinching aim—to register my own times in terms of my own time, and still more to urge those who are better poets and better prose-writers than myself to have the same aim.”

He fought in World War I from 1915 to 1917, returning home shell-shocked after the Battle of the Somme. In 1919 he changed his name to Ford Madox Ford. He died in France on June 26, 1939.

Selected Bibliography

Selected Poems (Pym-Randall Press, 1971)
Collected Poems (Oxford University Press, 1936)
New Poems (William Edwin Rudge, 1927)
On Heaven, and Poems Written on Active Service (John Lane, 1918)
Collected Poems (Max Goschen, 1914)
High Germany (Duckworth, 1911)
Songs from London (1910)
Inland (1907)
The Face of the Night (J. Macqueen, 1904)
Poems for Pictures (1900)
The Questions at the Well (1893)

The Last Post (A. & C. Boni, 1928)
No More Parades (A. & C. Boni, 1925)
Some Do Not… (T. Seltzer, 1924)
The Good Soldier: A Tale of Passion (John Lane, 1915)
The Shifting of Fire (T. F. Unwin, 1892)

by this poet


All within is warm,
   Here without it's very cold,
   Now the year is grown so old
And the dead leaves swarm.

In your heart is light,
   Here without it's very dark,
   When shall I hear the lark?
When see aright?

Oh, for a moment's space!
   Draw the


(To the memory of A. V.)

It rains, it rains,
From gutters and drains
And gargoyles and gables:
It drips from the tables
That tell us the tolls upon grains,
Oxen, asses, sheep, turkeys and fowls
Set into the rain-soaked wall
Of the old Town Hall.

The mountains