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Dreamy, Ivor Gurney, in English Clear filters

DreamyIvor Gurney

Solace of Men

Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share, Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear-- The old dreams of comfort bringing anew. For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams, And in those clouds a drowsing man may find All that was ever sweet to his starved mind, Heart long denied--dear friends, hills, horses, trees, Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ... The bane of care, the spur to memories.
DreamyIvor Gurney

Sonnets 1917: 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.
DreamyIvor Gurney

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.
DreamyIvor Gurney

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.
DreamyIvor Gurney

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.

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