by Ivor Gurney

Ivor Gurney

I think the loathed minutes one by one
That tear and then go past are little worth
Save nearer to the blindness to the sun
They bring me, and the farewell to all earth
Save to that six-foot-length I must lie in
Sodden with mud, and not to grieve again
Because high Autumn goes beyond my pen
And snow lies inexprest in the deep lane.

Last updated July 01, 2015