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First March
Ivor Gurney
, The Poem
First March by Ivor Gurney
It was first marching, hardly we had settled yet
To think of England, or escaped body pain -
(Cotswold or music - or poetry, the pack to forget)
Flat country going leaves but small chance, small hope for
The mind to escape to any resort but its vain
Own circling grayness and stain;
First halt, second halt, and then to spoiled country again.
There were unknown kilometres to march, one must settle
To play chess, or talk home talk, or think as might happen
After three weeks of February frost, few were in fettle,
Barely frost bite the most of us Gloucesters had escaped.
To move, then, to go onward, at least to be moved -
Myself had revived and then dulled down. It was I
Who stared for body-ease on the gray sky
And watched in grind of pain the monotony
Of grit, road metal, slide underneath by dull down by
To get there being the one thought under, to get marching done.
Suddenly, a road’s turn brought the sweet unexpected
Pleasure. Snowdrops bloomed in a ruined garden neglected:
Roman the road; as of Birdlip we were on the verge,
And this West Country thing so from chaos to emerge
(Surely Witcombe with dim water lay under March’s morning-falter?)
One gracious touch the whole wilderness corrected.
But words are only words and the snowdrops were such
Then, as some Bach fugue wonder - or some Winter Tale touch.
First March
Ivor Gurney
, The Poem
First March by Ivor Gurney
It was first marching, hardly we had settled yet
To think of England, or escaped body pain -
(Cotswold or music - or poetry, the pack to forget)
Flat country going leaves but small chance, small hope for
The mind to escape to any resort but its vain
Own circling grayness and stain;
First halt, second halt, and then to spoiled country again.
There were unknown kilometres to march, one must settle
To play chess, or talk home talk, or think as might happen
After three weeks of February frost, few were in fettle,
Barely frost bite the most of us Gloucesters had escaped.
To move, then, to go onward, at least to be moved -
Myself had revived and then dulled down. It was I
Who stared for body-ease on the gray sky
And watched in grind of pain the monotony
Of grit, road metal, slide underneath by dull down by
To get there being the one thought under, to get marching done.
Suddenly, a road’s turn brought the sweet unexpected
Pleasure. Snowdrops bloomed in a ruined garden neglected:
Roman the road; as of Birdlip we were on the verge,
And this West Country thing so from chaos to emerge
(Surely Witcombe with dim water lay under March’s morning-falter?)
One gracious touch the whole wilderness corrected.
But words are only words and the snowdrops were such
Then, as some Bach fugue wonder - or some Winter Tale touch.
