From the trenches
of war,
on a page of a letter which is
spattered and stained,
with the note, "Bully beef at fault,"
one finds the following poem:
[From Ivor Gurney: Collected Letters.
Edited by R. K. R. Thornton.
Northumberland: Mid Northumberland Arts Group;
Manchester: Carcanet, 1991, pp.204-205,
a letter postmarked Feb 9, 1917.]
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Beauty
I cannot live with Beauty out of
mind.
I search for her and desire her
all the day;
Beauty, the choicest treasure you
may find,
Most joyous and sweetest word his
lips can say.
The crowded heart in me is quick
with visions
And sweetest music born of a brighter
day.
But though the trees have long since
lost their green
And I, the exile, can but dream
of things
Grown magic in the mind; I watch
the sheen
Of frost, and hear the song Orion
sings.
Yet O, the star-born passion of
Beethoven,
Man's consolation sung on the quivering
strings.
Beauty immortal, not to be hid,
desire
Of all men, each in his fashion,
give me the strong
Thirst past satisfaction for thee,
and fire
Not to be quenched . . . . O lift
me, bear me along,
Touch me, make me worthy that men
may seek me
For Beauty, Mistress Immortal,
Healer of Wrong.
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