The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSevern & Somme

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSevern & SommeThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Severn & SommeAuthor: Ivor GurneyRelease date: November 27, 2020 [eBook #63895]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesavailable at The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVERN & SOMME ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Severn & SommeAuthor: Ivor GurneyRelease date: November 27, 2020 [eBook #63895]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesavailable at The Internet Archive)

Title: Severn & Somme

Author: Ivor Gurney

Release date: November 27, 2020 [eBook #63895]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesavailable at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVERN & SOMME ***

SEVERN & SOMME

BYIVOR GURNEYPrivate, of the GloucestersLONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1917First published in 1917All rights reservedTOMARGARET HUNT

Thisbook 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 boatDorothy, 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.

Livingwe loved you, yet withheld our praisesBefore your faces;And though we had your spirits high in honour,After the English mannerWe 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 cannotShake it one jot.Beside the fire at night some far December,We shall rememberAnd tell men, unbegotten as yet, the storyOf your sad glory—Of your plain strength, your truth of heart, your splendidCoolness, all ended!All ended, ... yet the aching hearts of loversJoy overcovers,Glad in their sorrow; hoping that if they mustCome 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 peaceEngland, watching increase—Then death with you, honoured, and swift, and high;And so—not die.IN TRENCHES,July1916.

Livingwe loved you, yet withheld our praisesBefore 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 cannotShake it one jot.

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

And tell men, unbegotten as yet, the storyOf your sad glory—

Of your plain strength, your truth of heart, your splendidCoolness, all ended!

All ended, ... yet the aching hearts of loversJoy overcovers,

Glad in their sorrow; hoping that if they mustCome 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 peaceEngland, watching increase—

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

IN TRENCHES,July1916.

God, that I might seeFramilode 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 riverHoming again to the sea.The star of afterglow,Venus, on western hills;Dymock in spring: O springOf home! O daffodils!And Malvern’s matchless hugeBastions 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.

God, that I might seeFramilode 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 riverHoming again to the sea.

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

And Malvern’s matchless hugeBastions 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.

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 dayUnstirred by rattle of the rolling drums,Or bugles’ strident cry. When mere noise numbsThe sense of being, the fear-sick soul doth sway,Remember thy great craft’s honour, that they may sayNothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbsOf praise the little versemen joyed to takeShall be forgotten: then they must know we are,For all our skill in words, equal in mightAnd strong of mettle as those we honoured; makeThe name of poet terrible in just war,And like a crown of honour upon the fight.

Owhenwe swung through Maisemore,The Maisemore people cheered,And women ran from farmyards,And men from ricks, afearedTo lose the sight of soldiersWho would, ’fore Christmas Day,Blow Kaiser William’s ArmyLike mist of breath away!The war it was but young then!And we were young, unknowingThe 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 lingerIn our hearts, as Maisemore Ridge.When the darkness downward hoversMaking trees like German shadows,How our souls fly homing, homingTimes and times to Maisemore meadows,By Aubers ridge that Maisemore menHave died in vain to hold....The burning thought but once desiresMaisemore in morning gold!O when we marched through MaisemorePast many a creaking cart,We little thought we had in usLove so hot at heart.

Owhenwe swung through Maisemore,The Maisemore people cheered,And women ran from farmyards,And men from ricks, afeared

To lose the sight of soldiersWho would, ’fore Christmas Day,Blow Kaiser William’s ArmyLike mist of breath away!

The war it was but young then!And we were young, unknowingThe 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 lingerIn our hearts, as Maisemore Ridge.

When the darkness downward hoversMaking trees like German shadows,How our souls fly homing, homingTimes and times to Maisemore meadows,

By Aubers ridge that Maisemore menHave died in vain to hold....The burning thought but once desiresMaisemore in morning gold!

O when we marched through MaisemorePast many a creaking cart,We little thought we had in usLove so hot at heart.

Thosedreadful evidences of Man’s ill-doingThe kindly Mother of all shall soon hide deep,Covering with tender fingers her children asleep,Till Time’s slow cycle turns them to renewingIn other forms their beauty—no grief, no rueingIrrevocable woe. They’ll lie, they’ll steepTheir hearts in peace unfathomed, till they leapQuick 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.

Winternow has bared the trees,Killed with tiny swords the jollyLeafage that mid-summer sees,But left the ivy and the holly.Hold them highAnd make delightFor Christë’s joy that’s born to-night.All green things but these have hidTheir heads, or died in melancholy,Winter’s spite them all has ridSave only ivy and brave holly.Give them placeIn all men’s sightFor Christë’s grace that’s born to-night.Baby eyes are pleased to seeBright red berries and children jolly,So shout and dance and sing with glee,And honour ivy and prickly holly.Honour courageAnd make delightFor 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!

Winternow has bared the trees,Killed with tiny swords the jollyLeafage that mid-summer sees,But left the ivy and the holly.Hold them highAnd make delightFor Christë’s joy that’s born to-night.

All green things but these have hidTheir heads, or died in melancholy,Winter’s spite them all has ridSave only ivy and brave holly.Give them placeIn all men’s sightFor Christë’s grace that’s born to-night.

Baby eyes are pleased to seeBright red berries and children jolly,So shout and dance and sing with glee,And honour ivy and prickly holly.Honour courageAnd make delightFor 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!

Littledid I dream, England, that you bore meUnder the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows,To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your bordersAnd 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 spiritMiraculously shining.Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly,Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the riverMuddy and strongly-flowing, with shy and tiny streamletsSafe in its bosom.Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-poolsFragile 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 youIn strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters;None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice;None, but you, repay.

Littledid I dream, England, that you bore meUnder the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows,To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your bordersAnd 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 spiritMiraculously shining.

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

Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-poolsFragile 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 youIn strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters;None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice;None, but you, repay.

Norsteel 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 freeAnd unafraid; so I remember stillNor steel nor flame has any power on me,Save that its malice work the Almighty Will.

Onerainy winter duskMending a parted cable,Sudden I saw so clearHome and the tea-table.So clear it was, so sweet,I did not start, but drewThe breath of deep contentSome minutes ere I knewMy Mother’s face that’s sootherThan autumn half-lights kind,My softly smiling sistersWho keep me still in mind,Were but a dream, a vision—That faded. And I knewThe smell of trench, trench-feeling—And turned to work anew.

Onerainy winter duskMending a parted cable,Sudden I saw so clearHome and the tea-table.

So clear it was, so sweet,I did not start, but drewThe breath of deep contentSome minutes ere I knew

My Mother’s face that’s sootherThan autumn half-lights kind,My softly smiling sistersWho keep me still in mind,

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

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

Iwatchedthe boys of England where they wentThrough mud and water to do appointed things.See one a stake, and one wire-netting brings,And one comes slowly under a burden bentOf ammunition. Though the strength be spentThey “carry on” under the shadowing wingsOf Death the ever-present. And hark, one singsAlthough no joy from the grey skies be lent.Are these the heroes—these? have kept from youThe power of primal savagery so long?Shall break the devil’s legions? These they areWho do in silence what they might boast to do;In the height of battle tell the world in songHow they do hate and fear the face of War.

Are these the heroes—these? have kept from youThe power of primal savagery so long?Shall break the devil’s legions? These they areWho do in silence what they might boast to do;In the height of battle tell the world in songHow they do hate and fear the face of War.

Watchingthe dark my spirit rose in floodOn that most dearest Prelude of my delight.The low-lying mist lifted its hood,The October stars showed nobly in clear night.When I return, and to real music-making,And play that Prelude, how will it happen then?Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking,With a dull sense of No Man’s Land again?

Watchingthe dark my spirit rose in floodOn that most dearest Prelude of my delight.The low-lying mist lifted its hood,The October stars showed nobly in clear night.

When I return, and to real music-making,And play that Prelude, how will it happen then?Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking,With a dull sense of No Man’s Land again?

“Mail’s up!” The vast of night is over,And love of friends fills all one’s mind.(His wife, his sister, or his lover.)Mail’s up, the vast of night is over,The grey-faced heaven joy does coverWith love, and God once more seems kind.“Mail’s up!” the vast of night is over,And love of friends fills all one’s mind.

The“crumps” are falling twenty to the minute.We crouch, and wait the end of it—or us.Just behind the trench, before, and in it,The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute;(O Framilode! O Maisemore’s laughing linnet!)Here comes a monster like a motor-bus.The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute:We crouch and wait the end of it—or us.

SinceI can neither alter my destinyBy one hair’s breadth from its appointed course;Since bribes nor prayers nor any earthly forceMay from its pathway move a life not free—I must gather together the whole strength of me.My senses make my willing servitors;Cherish and feed the better, starve the worse;Turn all my pride to proud humility.Meeting the daily shocks and frozen, stony,Cynical face of doubt with smiles and joy—As a battle with autumn winds delights a boy,Before the smut of the world and the lust of money,Power, and fame, can yet his youth destroy;Ere he has scorned his Father’s patrimony.

Ihaveseen Death and the faces of men in fearOf Death, and shattered, terribly ruined flesh,Appalled; but through the horror, coloured and clearThe love of my county, Gloster, rises afresh.And on the Day of Days, the Judgment Day,The Word of Doom awaiting breathless and still,I’ll marvel how sweet’s the air down Framilode way,And take my sentence on sheer-down Crickley Hill.

Ihaveseen Death and the faces of men in fearOf Death, and shattered, terribly ruined flesh,Appalled; but through the horror, coloured and clearThe love of my county, Gloster, rises afresh.

And on the Day of Days, the Judgment Day,The Word of Doom awaiting breathless and still,I’ll marvel how sweet’s the air down Framilode way,And take my sentence on sheer-down Crickley Hill.

Theboys who laughed and jested with me but yesterday,So fit for kings to speak to, so blithe and proud and gay ...Are now but thoughts of blind pain, and best hid away....(Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.)O, if we catch the Kaiser his dirty hide to flay,We’ll hang him on a tall tree his pride to allay.That will not bring the boys again to mountain and brae....(Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.)To think—earth’s best and dearest turned to red broken clayBy one devil’s second! What words can we say?Or what gift has God their mothers’ anguish to repay?...(Over the top this morning at the first flush of day.)

O, if we catch the Kaiser his dirty hide to flay,We’ll hang him on a tall tree his pride to allay.That will not bring the boys again to mountain and brae....(Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.)

To think—earth’s best and dearest turned to red broken clayBy one devil’s second! What words can we say?Or what gift has God their mothers’ anguish to repay?...(Over the top this morning at the first flush of day.)

Youthat were once so sweet, are sweeter nowThat an even leaden greyness clouds my days;A pain it is to think on your sweet ways,Your careless-tender speaking, tender and low.When the hills enclosed us, hid in happy valleys,Greeting a thousand times the things most dear,We wasted thoughts of love in laughter clear,And told our passion out in mirthful sallies.But in me now a burning impulse ragesTo praise our love in words like flaming gold,Molten and live for ever; not fit for coldAnd coward like-to-passions Time assuages.Nor do I fear you are lovely only in dreams,Being as the sky reflected in clear streams.

Outof my sorrow have I made these songs,Out of my sorrow;Though somewhat of the making’s eager painFrom Joy did borrow.Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for meShall be complete,And then—to enter in the House of Joy....Prepare, my feet.

Outof my sorrow have I made these songs,Out of my sorrow;Though somewhat of the making’s eager painFrom Joy did borrow.

Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for meShall be complete,And then—to enter in the House of Joy....Prepare, my feet.

Thedeath of princes isHonoured most greatly,Proud kings put purple onIn manner stately.Though they have lived such lifeAs God offends,Gone fearful down to death,Sick, without friends.And in the temple dim,Trumpets of goldProclaim their glory; soTheir story is told.In sentimental hymnsWeeping her dolour,The mother of heroes wearsVile black—Death’s colour,Who should walk proudly withThe noblest oneOf all that purple throng—“This was my son.”

Thedeath of princes isHonoured most greatly,Proud kings put purple onIn manner stately.

Though they have lived such lifeAs God offends,Gone fearful down to death,Sick, without friends.

And in the temple dim,Trumpets of goldProclaim their glory; soTheir story is told.

In sentimental hymnsWeeping her dolour,The mother of heroes wearsVile black—Death’s colour,

Who should walk proudly withThe noblest oneOf all that purple throng—“This was my son.”

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