It seemed that it were well to kiss first earth <br />On landing, having traversed the narrow seas, <br />And grasp so little, tenderly, of this field of birth. <br />Prance having trodden and lain on, travelled bending the knees. <br />And having shed blood — known heart for Her and last nerve freeze, <br />Proved body past heart, and soul past (so we thought) any worth <br />For what so dear a thing as the first homecoming, <br />The seeing smoke pillar aloft from the home dwellings; <br />Sign of travel ended, lifted awhile the dooming <br />Sentence of exile; homecoming, right of tale-tellings, <br />But mud is on our fate after so long acquaintance, <br />We find of England the first gate without Romance; <br />Blue paved wharfs with dock-policemen and civic decency, <br />Trains and restrictions, order and politeness and directions, <br />Motion by black and white, guided ever about ways <br />And staleness with petrol-dust distinguishing days. <br />A grim faced black-garbed mother efficient and busy <br />Set upon housework, worn-minded and fantasy free — <br />A work-house matron, forgetting Her old birth friend – the Sea.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blighty/
