The Project Gutenberg EBook of Severn & Somme, by Ivor Gurney 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 at www.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 & Somme Author: Ivor Gurney Release Date: November 27, 2020 [EBook #63895] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVERN & SOMME *** SEVERN & SOMME SEVERN & SOMME BY IVOR GURNEY Private, of the Gloucesters LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1917 _First published in 1917_ _All rights reserved_ TO MARGARET HUNT 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 I WATCHED the boys of England where they went Through mud and water to do appointed things. See one a stake, and one wire-netting brings, And one comes slowly under a burden bent Of ammunition. Though the strength be spent They “carry on” under the shadowing wings Of Death the ever-present. And hark, one sings Although no joy from the grey skies be lent. Are these the heroes--these? have kept from you The power of primal savagery so long? Shall break the devil’s legions? These they are Who do in silence what they might boast to do; In the height of battle tell the world in song How they do hate and fear the face of War. BACH AND THE SENTRY WATCHING the dark my spirit rose in flood On 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? LETTERS “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 cover With 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. STRAFE 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. ACQUIESCENCE SINCE I can neither alter my destiny By one hair’s breadth from its appointed course; Since bribes nor prayers nor any earthly force May 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. THE STRONG THING I HAVE seen Death and the faces of men in fear Of Death, and shattered, terribly ruined flesh, Appalled; but through the horror, coloured and clear The 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. SCOTS THE boys 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 clay By 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.) TO AN UNKNOWN LADY YOU that were once so sweet, are sweeter now That 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 rages To praise our love in words like flaming gold, Molten and live for ever; not fit for cold And coward like-to-passions Time assuages. Nor do I fear you are lovely only in dreams, Being as the sky reflected in clear streams. SONG AND PAIN OUT of my sorrow have I made these songs, Out of my sorrow; Though somewhat of the making’s eager pain From Joy did borrow. Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for me Shall be complete, And then--to enter in the House of Joy.... Prepare, my feet. PURPLE AND BLACK THE death of princes is Honoured most greatly, Proud kings put purple on In manner stately. Though they have lived such life As God offends, Gone fearful down to death, Sick, without friends. And in the temple dim, Trumpets of gold Proclaim their glory; so Their story is told. In sentimental hymns Weeping her dolour, The mother of heroes wears Vile black--Death’s colour, Who should walk proudly with The noblest one Of all that purple throng-- “This was my son.” WEST COUNTRY SPRING comes soon to Maisemore And spring comes sweet, With bird-songs and blue skies, On gay dancing feet; But she is such a shy lady I fear we’ll never meet. Yet some day round a corner Where the hedge foams white, I’ll find Spring sleeping In the young-crescent night, And seize her and make her Yield all her delight. But yon’s a glad story That’s yet to be told. Here’s grey winter’s bareness And no-shadowed cold. O Spring, with your music, Your blue, green, and gold, Come shame his hard wisdom With laughter and gold! FIRELIGHT SILENT, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloom The boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room, Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin, They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in, That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew, And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through. They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed, Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said. And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep, They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep, To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the sea Where some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me. THE ESTAMINET THE crowd of us were drinking One night at Riez Bailleul, The glasses were a-clinking, The estaminet was full; And loud with song and story And blue with tales and smoke,-- We spoke no word of glory, Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.” But yarns of girls in Blighty; Vain, jolly, ugly, fair, Standoffish, foolish, flighty-- And O! that we were there! Where never thuds a “Minnie,” But Minnie smiles at you A-meeting in the spinney, With kisses not a few. And of an inn that Johnson Does keep; the “Rising Sun.” His friends him call Jack Johnson, He’s Gloster’s only one. And talk of poachers’ habits (But girls ever and again) Of killing weasels, rabbits, Stoats, pheasants, never men, Although we knew to-morrow Must take us to the line, In beer hid thought and sorrow, In ruddy and white wine. When all had finished drinking, Though still was clear each head, We said no word--went slinking Straight homeward (?), into bed (?). O never lads were merrier Nor straighter nor more fine, Though we were only “Terrier” And only, “Second Line.” O I may get to Blighty, Or hell, without a sign Of all the love that filled me, Leave dumb the love that filled me, The flood of love that filled me For these dear comrades of mine. SONG ONLY the wanderer Knows England’s graces, Or can anew see clear Familiar faces. And who loves joy as he That dwells in shadows? Do not forget me quite, O Severn meadows. BALLAD OF THE THREE SPECTRES AS I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleering spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me. The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldier That walks the dark unfearingly; Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher, And laughing for a nice Blighty.” The second, “Read his face, old comrade, No kind of lucky chance I see; One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow, Then look his last on Picardie.” Though bitter the word of these first twain Curses the third spat venomously; “He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawning Then live one hour of agony.” Liars the first two were. Behold me At sloping arms by one--two--three; Waiting the time I shall discover Whether the third spake verity. COMMUNION BEAUTY lies so deep On all the fields, Nothing for the eyes But blessing yields. Tall elms, greedy of light, Stand tip-toe. See The last light linger in Their tracery. The guns are dumb, are still All evil noises. The singing heart in peace Softly rejoices, Only unsatisfied With Beauty’s hunger And sacramental thirst-- Nothing of anger. Mist wraiths haunt the path As daylight lessens, The stars grow clearer, and My dead friend’s presence. TIME AND THE SOLDIER HOW slow you move, old Time; Walk a bit faster! Old fool, I’m not your slave.... Beauty’s my master! You hold me for a space.... What are you, Time? A ghost, a thing of thought, An easy rhyme. Some day I shall again, For all your scheming, See Severn valley clouds Like banners streaming. And walk in Cranham lanes, By Maisemore go.... But, fool, decrepit Fool, You are SO SLOW!!! INFLUENCES WHEN woods of home grow dark, I grow dark too. Images of strange power Fill me and thrill me that hour, Sombre of hue. The woods of Dunsinane I walk, and know What storms did shake Macbeth, That brought on Duncan’s death, And his own woe. Strange whispers chill the blood Of evil breath; Such rumours as did stir Witch and foul sorcerer On the lone heath. No power have these on me; I know too well Their weakness to condemn. Spring will exorcise them With one bluebell. AFTER-GLOW [_TO_ F. W. HARVEY] OUT of the smoke and dust of the little room With tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys, I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noise Ceased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom, To wonder at the miracle hanging high Tangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear.-- Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we were Once more at home together, you and I. The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shade Who watched the ecstatic West with one desire, One soul uprapt; and still another fire Consumed us, and our joy yet greater made: That Bach should sing for us, mix us in one The joy of firelight and the sunken sun. HAIL AND FAREWELL THE destined bullet wounded him, They brought him down to die, Far-off a bugle sounded him “Retreat,” Good-bye. Strange, that from ways so hated, And tyranny so hard Should come this strangely fated And farewell word. He thought, “Some Old Sweat might Have thrilled at heart to hear, Gone down into the night Too proud to fear! But I--the fool at arms, Musician, poet to boot, Who hail release; what charms In this salute?” He smiled--“The latest jest That time on me shall play.” And watched the dying west, Went out with the day. PRAISE O friends of mine, if men mock at my name, Say “Children loved him.” Since by that word you will have far removed him From any bitter shame. WINTER BEAUTY I CANNOT live with Beauty out of mind; I seek her and desire her all the day, Being the chiefest treasure man may find, And word most sweet his eager lips can say. She is as strong on me as though I wandered In Severn meadows some blue riotous day. But since the trees have long since lost their green, And I, an exile, can but dream of things Grown magic in the mind, I watch the sheen Of frost and hear the song Orion sings, And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven; Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings. Beauty of song remembered, sunset glories, Mix in my mind, till I not care nor know Whether the stars do move me, golden stories, Or ruddy Cotswold in the sunset glow. I am uprapt, and not my own, immortal, ... In winds of Beauty swinging to and fro. Beauty immortal, not to be hid, desire Of all men, each in his fashion, give me the strong Thirst past satisfaction for thee, and fire Not to be quenched.... O lift me, bear me along, Touch me, make me worthy that men may seek me For Beauty, Mistress Immortal, Healer of Wrong. SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTY [_To_ M. M. S.] O MAY these days of pain, These wasted-seeming days, Somewhere reflower again With scent and savour of praise. Draw out of memory all bitterness Of night with Thy sun’s rays. And strengthen Thou in me The love of men here found, And eager charity, That, out of difficult ground, Spring like flowers in barren deserts, or Like light, or a lovely sound. A simpler heart than mine Might have seen beauty clear Where I could see no sign Of Thee, but only fear. Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty always In every happening here. IN TRENCHES, _March 1917_. SPRING. ROUEN, MAY 1917 I AM dumb, I am dumb! And here’s a Norman orchard and here’s Spring Goading the sullen words that will not come. Romance, beating his distant magical drum, Calls to a soldier bearing alien arms, “Throw off your yoke and hear my darlings sing, Blackbirds” (by red-roofed farms) “More drunk than any poet with May’s delight, Green alive to the eye, and pink and white.” Joy’s there, but not for me; And song, but shall I sing That live as in a dream of some bad night, Whose memories are of such ecstasy And height of passionate joy, that pain alone Is born of beauty in cloud and flower and tree; Yes, and the great Cathedral’s towering stone. To me these are but shadows Of orchards and old meadows Trodden before the dawn, Trodden after the dusk.... All loveliness of France is as a husk, The inner living spirit of beauty gone, To that familiar beauty now withdrawn From exiles hungering ever for the sight Of her day-face; England’s; Or in some orchard space Breathless to drink peace from her calm night. How shall I sing, since she sings not to me Songs any more? High rule she holds for ever on the sea That’s hers, but dreams too might guard the shore Of France, that’s French and set apart for ever. A Spirit of Love our link of song does sever. Had it been hate (The weakest of all sworn enemies of Love) We should have broken through or passed above Its foolish barriers; Here we must bow as to established Fate, And reverently; for, comrades and high peers, Sisters in blood, Our mothers brook no rival in their state Of motherhood. But not for ever shall our travail last, And not for ever we Be held by iron Duty over sea. The image of evil shall be overcast, And all his willing slaves and priests of evil Scattered like dust, shall lie upon the plain; That image, ground to dust utterly level With unregarded weeds and all as vain. The oppressed shall lift their hearts up once again, And we return.... Not to scarred lands and homes laid in the dust, Not with hard hearts to sights that sear and burn, But with assured longing and certain trust, To England’s royal grace and dignity, To England’s changing skies, rich greenery, High strength controlled, queenly serenity, Inviolate kept by her confederate sea And hearts resolved to every sacrifice. We shall come home, We shall come home again, Living and dead, one huge victorious host-- The dead that would not leave their comrades till The last steep were topped of the difficult hill, The last farthing paid of the Great Cost, The last thrill suffered of the Great Pain. Living and dead, we shall come home at last To her sweet breast, England’s; by one touch be paid in full For all things grey and long and terrible Of that dread night which seemed eternity. O Mother, shall thy kisses not restore Body and life-sick soul? Yes, and set free Songs and great floods of lovelier melody Than thou didst give When we those days of half-awake did live. And joy must surely flower again more fair To us, who dwelt in shadows and foul air. We’ll breathe and drink in song. Spring shall blot out all traces of old care; Her clouds of green and waves of gold among We shall grow free of heart, and great, and young-- Be made anew in that Great Resurrection, Perfect as is the violet’s perfection. Perfect as she Who sanctifies our memory with sorrow, Hugs, as a mother hugs, the thoughts that harrow, Watching for dawn, hungering for the morrow Lone oversea.... I am dumb now, dumb, But in that time what music shall not come? Mother of Beauty, Mistress of the Sea. JUNE--TO--COME WHEN the sun’s fire and gold Sets the bee humming, I will not write to tell Him that I’m coming, But ride out unawares On that old road, Of Minsterworth, of Peace, Of Framilode, And walk, not looked for, in That cool, dark passage. Never a single word; Myself my message. And then; well ... O we’ll drift And stand and gaze, And wonder how we could In those Bad Days Live without Minsterworth; Or western air Fanning the hot cheek, Stirring the hair; In land where hate of men God’s love did cover; This land.... And here’s my dream Irrevocably over. “HARK, HARK, THE LARK” HARK, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen, Pours out his joy ... I think of you, shut in some distant prison, O Boy, poor Boy; Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadows Of prison ways; Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows, Or old blue-days. SONG AT MORNING PRAISE for the day’s magnificent uprising! Praise for the cool Air and the blue new-old ever-surprising Face of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool. Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed fool Can hold a deaf ear while life begins The actual opening of a myriad stories.... Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins! Now if this day blot out my chief desires, And leave me maimed and blind and full of hot Surges of insurrection, evil fires, Memories of joys that seem better forgot; Quiet me then. Thy Will is binding on the nearest flower As on the farthest star; and what shall put me Out of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far, Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me? But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day, Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feel Thy influence, Thy kindness: O unseal The shut, the hidden places in me, reveal Those things most precious secretly hidden away From all save children and the simply wise. Give me clear eyes! And strength to know, whatever may befall, The eternal presence of great mysteries, Glorifying Thee for all. TREES (“You cannot think how ghastly these battle-fields look under a grey sky. Torn trees are the most terrible things I have ever seen. Absolute blight and curse is on the face of everything.”) THE dead land oppressed me; I turned my thoughts away, And went where hill and meadow Are shadowless and gay. Where Coopers stands by Cranham, Where the hill-gashes white Show golden in the sunshine, Our sunshine--God’s delight. Beauty my feet stayed at last Where green was most cool, Trees worthy of all worship I worshipped ... then, O fool, Let my thoughts slide unwitting To other, dreadful trees, ... And found me standing, staring Sick of heart--at these! REQUIEM POUR out your light, O stars, and do not hold Your loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell-- Pure and cold your radiance, pure and cold My dead friend’s face as well. REQUIEM NOR grief nor tears should wrong the silent dead Save England’s, for her children fallen so far From her eager care; though by God’s justice led And fallen in such a war. REQUIEM POUR out your bounty, moon of radiant shining On all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms; For these were slain, so strangely still reclining, In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms. SONNETS 1917 [_TO_ THE MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE] 1. FOR ENGLAND THOUGH heaven be packed with joy-bewildering Pleasures of soul and heart and mind, yet who Would willingly let slip, freely let go Earth’s mortal loveliness; go wandering Where never the late bird is heard to sing, Nor full-sailed cloud-galleons wander slow; No pathways in the woods; no afterglow, When the air’s fire and magic with sense of spring? So the dark horror clouds us, and the dread Of the unknown.... But if it must be, then What better passing than to go out like men For England, giving all in one white glow? Whose bodies shall lie in earth as on a bed, And as the Will directs our spirits may go 2. PAIN PAIN, pain continual; pain unending; Hard even to the roughest, but to those Hungry for beauty.... Not the wisest knows, Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wending Of one hour’s way meant. Grey monotony lending Weight to the grey skies, grey mud where goes An army of grey bedrenched scarecrows in rows Careless at last of cruellest Fate-sending. Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone, Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir, Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud. Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun.-- Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her, The amazed heart cries angrily out on God. 3. SERVITUDE IF it were not for England, who would bear This heavy servitude one moment more? To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floor Of filthiest hovels were noble to compare With this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now there Harried in foolishness, scanned curiously o’er By fools made brazen by conceit, and store Of antique witticisms thin and bare. Only the love of comrades sweetens all, Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone. As night-watching men wait for the sun To hearten them, so wait I on such boys As neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal, Nor guns, nor sergeant-major’s bluster and noise. 4. HOME-SICKNESS WHEN we go wandering the wide air’s blue spaces, Bare, unhappy, exiled souls of men; How will our thoughts over and over again Return to Earth’s familiar lovely places, Where light with shadow ever interlaces-- No blanks of blue, nor ways beyond man’s ken-- Where birds are, and flowers, as violet, and wren, Blackbird, bluebell, hedge-sparrow, tiny daisies. O tiny things, but very stuff of soul To us ... so frail.... Remember what we are; Set us not on some strange outlandish star, But one caring for Love. Give us a Home. There we may wait while the long ages roll Content, unfrightened by vast Time-to-come. 5. ENGLAND THE MOTHER WE have done our utmost, England, terrible And dear taskmistress, darling Mother and stern. The unnoticed nations praise us, but we turn Firstly, only to thee--“Have we done well? Say, are you pleased?”--and watch your eyes that tell To us all secrets, eyes sea-deep that burn With love so long denied; with tears discern The scars and haggard look of all that hell. Thy love, thy love shall cherish, make us whole, Whereto the power of Death’s destruction is weak. Death impotent, by boys bemocked at, who Will leave unblotted in the soldier-soul Gold of the daffodil, the sunset streak, The innocence and joy of England’s blue. THE END PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY. * * * * * _From Sidgwick & Jackson’s List of Poetry_ =ASQUITH, HERBERT. The Volunteer and other Poems.= _Second Edition, with new Poems added._ =2s.= net. =BROOKE, RUPERT. Poems.= (_First issued 1911._) _Nineteenth Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. ---- =1914 and other Poems.= With a Portrait. _Twenty-first Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. ---- =Selected Poems.= With a new Portrait. _Second Impression._ Cloth, =3s. 6d.= net; lambskin, =5s.= net. =DRINKWATER, JOHN. Swords and Ploughshares.= _Second Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. ---- =Olton Pools.= _Second Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. ---- =Pawns; Three Poetic Plays. 2s. 6d.= net. ---- =Poems, 1908-1914. 5s.= net. =ENSOR, R. C. K. Odes and other Poems. 2s.= net. =GARSTIN, CROSBIE. Vagabond Verses.= Cloth, =2s. 6d.= net. =GRAVES, C. L. War’s Surprises, and other Verses.= Cloth, =3s. 6d.= net. [_Second Impression._ =HARVEY, F. W. A Gloucestershire Lad.= _Fourth Impression._ Cloth, =2s.= net; paper =1s. 6d.= net. ---- =Gloucestershire Friends.= Poems from a German Prison Camp. =2s. 6d.= net. =JENKINS, ELINOR. Poems. 2s. 6d.= net. =MACAULAY, ROSE. The Two Blind Countries.= Cloth, =2s. 6d.= net. =NIVEN, FREDERICK. Maple-leaf Songs.= Wrappers. =1s.= net. =OWEN, EVERARD. Three Hills and other Poems.= _Second Impression._ Wrappers, =6d.= net. =SHAKESPEARE, W. G. Ypres and other Poems.= Boards, =2s.= net. =SHANKS, EDWARD. Poems. 2s. 6d.= net. “=SOME VERSE.=” =By F. S.= _Third Impression._ Boards, =2s.= net. =SONGS OF THE “BLUE DRAGON.”= Cloth, =1s. 6d.= net; wrappers, =1s.= net. =TURNER, W. J. The Hunter and other Poems.= Cloth, =2s. 6d.= net. =TYNAN, KATHARINE. Flower of Youth.= _Second Impression._ =3s. 6d.= net. ---- =The Holy War. 3s. 6d.= net. ---- =Late Songs. 3s. 6d.= net. =YORKSHIRE DIALECT POEMS (1673-1915).= _Compiled with an Introduction by Prof. F. W. Moorman. Second Edition._ Cloth, =2s.= net; paper, =1s.= net. An anthology of the best poems in “broad Yorkshire.” _Complete List of Poetry and other Catalogues on application._ SIDGWICK & JACKSON, Ltd., 3 Adam Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.2 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVERN & SOMME *** ***** This file should be named 63895-0.txt or 63895-0.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/8/9/63895/ Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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