Ivor Gurney

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.

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?

(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.