Ivor Gurney

(1890–1937)

To the Poet Before Battle

Ivor Gurney

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

Unstirred by the tattle and

    rattle of rolling drums,

Or bugles’ strident cry.

    When mere noise numbs

The sense of being, the

    fear-sick soul doth sway,

Remember thy great craft’s

    honour, that they may say

Nothing in shame of Poets.

    Then the crumbs

Of praise the little

    versemen joyed to take

Shall be forgotten; then

    they must know we are,

For all our skill in words,

    equal in might

And strong of mettle as

    those we honoured; make

The name of Poet terrible in

    just War,

And like a crown of honour

    upon the fight.

—1915