Ivor Bertie Gurney (28 August 1890 - 26 December 1937) was an English composer and war poet.
Born at 3 Queen Street, Gloucester in 1890, Gurney sang as a chorister at Gloucester Cathedral, from 1900 to 1906, when he became an articled pupil of Dr Herbert Brewer at the cathedral. During this time he met composer Herbert Howells, also a pupil of Brewer, and, in 1908, he met the future ... more »
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Ivor Gurney Poems
The Songs I Had
The songs I had are withered Or vanished clean, Yet there are bright tracks Where I have been,
I shot him, and it had to be One of us 'Twas him or me. 'Couln't be helped' and none can blame Me, for you would do the same
To His Love
He's gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We'll walk no more on Cotswolds Where the sheep feed
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
The Silent One
Who died on the wires, and hung there, one of two - Who for his hours of life had chattered through Infinite lovely chatter of Bucks accent:
My Heart Makes Songs On Lonely Roads
My heart makes songs on lonely roads To comfort me while you're away, And strives with lovely sounding words Its crowded tenderness to say.
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,
Ballad Of The Three Spectres
As I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleeing spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me.
When March blows
When March blows, and Monday's linen is shown On the goose berry bushes, and the worried washer alone
Requiem Pour out your light, O stars, and do not hold Your loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell
Half dead with sheer tiredness, wakened quick at night • With dysentry pangs, going blind among sleepers
Pain, pain continual; pain unending; Hard even to the roughest, but to those Hungry for beauty . . . Not the wisest knows,
Little did I dream, England, that you bore me Under the Cotswold Rills beside the water meadows
Suddenly into the still air burst thudding And thudding and cold fear possessed me all, On the gray slopes there, where Winter in sullen brooding
Comments about Ivor Gurney
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Songs I Had
The songs I had are withered
Or vanished clean,
Yet there are bright tracks
Where I have been,
And there grow flowers
For other's delight.
Think well, O singer,
Soon comes night.