Ivor Gurney

(1890-1937 / England)

Ivor Gurney Poems

1. A Wish 8/31/2010
2. Above Ashleworth 8/31/2010
3. Afterwards 8/31/2010
4. Apprentices 8/31/2010
5. April Gale 8/31/2010
6. Bach And The Sentry 8/31/2010
7. Ballad Of The Three Spectres 8/31/2010
8. Beauty 8/31/2010
9. Ben Johnson 8/31/2010
10. Billet 8/31/2010
11. Blighty 8/31/2010
12. Brown Earth Look 8/31/2010
13. By Severn 8/31/2010
14. Canadians 8/31/2010
15. Common Things 8/31/2010
16. Crucifix Corner 8/31/2010
17. Cut Flowers 8/31/2010
18. Daily 8/31/2010
19. Darkness Has Cheating Swiftness 8/31/2010
20. Defiance 8/31/2010
21. Drachms + Scruples 8/31/2010
22. Encounters 8/31/2010
23. Equal Mistress 8/31/2010
24. First Time In 8/31/2010
25. Generations (The Ploughed Field And The Fallow Field) 8/31/2010
26. Generations (The Ploughed Field And The Fallow Field) 8/31/2010
27. Generations (There Are Mummers Yet On Cotswold) 8/31/2010
28. Had I A Song 8/31/2010
29. Half Dead 8/31/2010
30. Hedger 8/31/2010
31. Hedges 8/31/2010
32. I Saw England — July Night 7/9/2015
33. Kettle-Song 8/31/2010
34. Kilns 8/31/2010
35. La Gorgues 8/31/2010
36. Larches 8/31/2010
37. Laventie 8/31/2010
38. Leckhampton Chimney Has Fallen Down 8/31/2010
39. London Dawn 8/31/2010
40. Longford Dawns 8/31/2010

Comments about Ivor Gurney

  • John mason (12/6/2018 2:12:00 PM)

    I want to analyse to England a note

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Best Poem of Ivor Gurney

The Target

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

My mother, she cant sleep for fear
Of what might be a-happening here
To me. Perhaps it might be best
To die, and set her fears at rest

For worst is worst, and worry's done.
Perhaps he was the only son. . .
Yet God keeps still, and does not say
A word of guidance anyway.

Well, if they get me, first I'll find
That boy, and tell him all my mind,
And see who felt the bullet worst,
And ask his pardon,if I...

Read the full of The Target

Apprentices

We who praise poets with our labouring pen
And justify ourselves with laud of men
Have not the right to call our own our own,
Being but the ground-sprouts from those great trees grown.
The crafted art, the smooth curve, and surety
Come not of nature till the apprentice free
Of trouble with his tools, and cobwebbed cuts,
Spies out a path his own and casts his plots.
Then looking back on four-square edifices

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