by Ivor Gurney
When from the curve of the wood's edge does grow
Power, and that spreads to envelope me -
Wrapped up in sense of meeting tree and plough
I feel tiny song stir tremblingly,
And deep; the many birth-pangs separate
Taking most full of Joy, for soon shall come
The kindling, the beating at Heaven gate
The flood of tide that bears strongly home.
Then under the skies I make my vows
Myself to purify and fit my heart
For the inhabiting of the high House
Of Song, that dwells high and clean apart
The fire, the flood, the soaring, these the three
That merged are power of Song and prophecy.
Last updated July 01, 2015