Chapter I: Preface

This book stands dedicated to one only of my friends, but there are many others to whom I would willingly dedicate singly and in state, if that did not mean the writing of forty books of verse and dedications--a terrible thing for all concerned.

So that, under the single name and sign of homage and affection, I would desire such readers as come to me to add also:

To my father and mother; F. W. Harvey (also a Gloucestershire lad); Miss Marion Scott, whose criticism has been so useful, and she so kind, in spite of my continued refusal to alter a word of anything; the Vicar of Twigworth; Herbert Howells (and this is not the last time you will hear of him); Mr. Hilaire Belloc, whose “Path to Rome” has been my trench companion, with “The Spirit of Man”; Mr. Wilfred Gibson, author of “Friends,” a great little book; many others also, including Shakespeare and Bach, both friends of mine; and, last but not least, my comrades of two platoons of the-/-[A] Gloucesters, who so often have wondered whether I were crazy or not. Let them draw their own conclusions now, for the writing of this book it was that so distracted me.... This is a long list, and even now does not include old Mrs. Poyner, who was so jolly and long-suffering, nor my boat _Dorothy_, now idle in the mud; though a poet sang of her full of glory at Framilode.

[A] The publication of Battalion Nos. being strictly forbidden by the Military Authorities, we have to leave the identification of the platoons referred to by Mr. Gurney to those whom it concerns.--S. & J., LTD.

Even as I write the list becomes fuller, farther extended, yet a soldier must face pain, and so it remains shorter by far than might be.

I fear that those who buy the book (or even borrow), to get information about the Gloucesters will be disappointed. Most of the book is concerned with a person named Myself, and the rest with my county, Gloucester, that whether I die or live stays always with me--being in itself so beautiful, so full of memories; whose people are so good to be friends with, so easy-going and so frank.

Some of the afore-mentioned people I have never had good fortune enough to meet in the flesh, but that was not my fault. I hope they will forgive my using their names without permission. Ah, would they only retaliate in kind! That is, however, not likely, as I never was famous, and a Common Private makes but little show.

All these verses were written in France, and in sound of the guns, save only two or three earlier pieces. This should be reason enough to excuse any roughness in the technique. If more reason is required, people of home, and most of all, people of Gloucester, may well be indulgent to one who thought of them so often, and whose images of beauty in the mind were always of Gloucester, county of Cotswold and Severn, and a plain rich, blossomy, and sweet of airs--as the wise Romans knew, who made their homes in exile by the brown river, watching the further bank for signs of war.

Ivor Gurney.

_Spring_, 1917.

CONTENTS

PAGE

TO CERTAIN COMRADES 13

THE FIRE KINDLED 15

TO THE POET BEFORE BATTLE 17

MAISEMORE 18

AFTERWARDS 20

CAROL 21

STRANGE SERVICE 23

SERENITY 25

THE SIGNALLER’S VISION 26

THE MOTHER 27

TO ENGLAND--A NOTE 28

BACH AND THE SENTRY 29

LETTERS 30

STRAFE 31

ACQUIESCENCE 32

THE STRONG THING 33

SCOTS 34

TO AN UNKNOWN LADY 35

SONG AND PAIN 36

PURPLE AND BLACK 37

WEST COUNTRY 38

FIRELIGHT 39

THE ESTAMINET 40

SONG 42

BALLAD OF THE THREE SPECTRES 43

COMMUNION 44

TIME AND THE SOLDIER 45

INFLUENCES 46

AFTER-GLOW 47

HAIL AND FAREWELL 48

PRAISE 49

WINTER BEAUTY 50

SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTY 52

SPRING. ROUEN, MAY 1917 53

JUNE--TO--COME 57

“HARK, HARK, THE LARK” 59

SONG AT MORNING 60

TREES 61

REQUIEM 62

REQUIEM 63

REQUIEM 64

SONNETS 1917:

1. FOR ENGLAND 65

2. PAIN 66

3. SERVITUDE 67

4. HOME-SICKNESS 68

5. ENGLAND THE MOTHER 69

SEVERN AND SOMME

TO CERTAIN COMRADES

(E. S. AND J. H.)

LIVING we loved you, yet withheld our praises
Before your faces;

And though we had your spirits high in honour,
After the English manner

We said no word. Yet, as such comrades would,
You understood.

Such friendship is not touched by Death’s disaster,
But stands the faster;

And all the shocks and trials of time cannot
Shake it one jot.

Beside the fire at night some far December,
We shall remember

And tell men, unbegotten as yet, the story
Of your sad glory--

Of your plain strength, your truth of heart, your splendid
Coolness, all ended!

All ended, ... yet the aching hearts of lovers
Joy overcovers,

Glad in their sorrow; hoping that if they must
Come to the dust,

An ending such as yours may be their portion,
And great good fortune--

That if we may not live to serve in peace
England, watching increase--

Then death with you, honoured, and swift, and high;
And so--not die.

=IN TRENCHES, _July_ 1916=.

THE FIRE KINDLED

GOD, that I might see
Framilode once again!
Redmarley, all renewed,
Clear shining after rain.

And Cranham, Cranham trees,
And blaze of Autumn hues.
Portway under the moon,
Silvered with freezing dews.

May Hill that Gloster dwellers
’Gainst every sunset see;
And the wide Severn river
Homing again to the sea.

The star of afterglow,
Venus, on western hills;
Dymock in spring: O spring
Of home! O daffodils!

And Malvern’s matchless huge
Bastions of ancient fires--
These will not let me rest,
So hot my heart desires....

Here we go sore of shoulder,
Sore of foot, by quiet streams;
But these are not my rivers....
And these are useless dreams.

TO THE POET BEFORE BATTLE

NOW, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes:
Thy lovely things must all be laid away;
And thou, as others, must face the riven day
Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums,
Or bugles’ strident cry. When mere noise numbs
The sense of being, the fear-sick soul doth sway,
Remember thy great craft’s honour, that they may say
Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs
Of praise the little versemen joyed to take
Shall be forgotten: then they must know we are,
For all our skill in words, equal in might
And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make
The name of poet terrible in just war,
And like a crown of honour upon the fight.

MAISEMORE

O WHEN we swung through Maisemore,
The Maisemore people cheered,
And women ran from farmyards,
And men from ricks, afeared

To lose the sight of soldiers
Who would, ’fore Christmas Day,
Blow Kaiser William’s Army
Like mist of breath away!

The war it was but young then!
And we were young, unknowing
The path we were to tread,
The way the path was going.

And not a man of all of us,
Marching across the bridge,
Had thought how Home would linger
In our hearts, as Maisemore Ridge.

When the darkness downward hovers
Making trees like German shadows,
How our souls fly homing, homing
Times and times to Maisemore meadows,

By Aubers ridge that Maisemore men
Have died in vain to hold....
The burning thought but once desires
Maisemore in morning gold!

O when we marched through Maisemore
Past many a creaking cart,
We little thought we had in us
Love so hot at heart.

AFTERWARDS

THOSE dreadful evidences of Man’s ill-doing
The kindly Mother of all shall soon hide deep,
Covering with tender fingers her children asleep,
Till Time’s slow cycle turns them to renewing
In other forms their beauty--no grief, no rueing
Irrevocable woe. They’ll lie, they’ll steep
Their hearts in peace unfathomed, till they leap
Quick to the light of the sun, as flowers strewing,
Maybe, their own friends’ paths. And that’s not all.
When men who knew them walk old ways alone,
The paths they loved together, at even-fall,
The troubled heart shall know a presence near,
Friendly, familiar, and the old grief gone,
The new keen joy shall make all darkness clear.

CAROL

WINTER now has bared the trees,
Killed with tiny swords the jolly
Leafage that mid-summer sees,
But left the ivy and the holly.
Hold them high
And make delight
For Christë’s joy that’s born to-night.

All green things but these have hid
Their heads, or died in melancholy,
Winter’s spite them all has rid
Save only ivy and brave holly.
Give them place
In all men’s sight
For Christë’s grace that’s born to-night.

Baby eyes are pleased to see
Bright red berries and children jolly,
So shout and dance and sing with glee,
And honour ivy and prickly holly.
Honour courage
And make delight
For Christë’s sake that’s born to-night.

Christus natus hodie!
Drink deep of joy on Christmas Day,
Join hands and sing a roundelay,
For this is Christ’s and children’s day,
Christus natus hodie!
Hodie!

STRANGE SERVICE

LITTLE did I dream, England, that you bore me
Under the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows,
To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders
And your enfolding seas.

I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service,
Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty,
As through a child’s face one may see the clear spirit
Miraculously shining.

Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly,
Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river
Muddy and strongly-flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets
Safe in its bosom.

Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-pools
Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs....
In my deep heart for ever goes on your daily being,
And uses consecrate.

Think on me too, O Mother, who wrest my soul to serve you
In strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters;
None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice;
None, but you, repay.

SERENITY

NOR steel nor flame has any power on me,
Save that its malice work the Almighty Will,
Nor steel nor flame has any power on me;
Through tempests of hell-fire I must go free
And unafraid; so I remember still
Nor steel nor flame has any power on me,
Save that its malice work the Almighty Will.

THE SIGNALLER’S VISION

ONE rainy winter dusk
Mending a parted cable,
Sudden I saw so clear
Home and the tea-table.

So clear it was, so sweet,
I did not start, but drew
The breath of deep content
Some minutes ere I knew

My Mother’s face that’s soother
Than autumn half-lights kind,
My softly smiling sisters
Who keep me still in mind,

Were but a dream, a vision--
That faded. And I knew
The smell of trench, trench-feeling--
And turned to work anew.

THE MOTHER

WE scar the earth with dreadful engin’ry;
She takes us to her bosom at the last;
Hiding our hate with love, who cannot see
Of any child the faults; and holds us fast.
We’ll wait in quiet till our passion’s past.

TO ENGLAND--A NOTE