More Gurney

I thought I'd print the Ivor Gurney poem that I'm currently setting. I've no idea what it's background, but it strikes me as being homo-erotic at least.

To His Love

He's gone, and all our plans
are useless indeed.
We'll walk no more on Cotswold
where the sheep feed
quietlsy and take no heed.

His body that was so quick
is not as you
knew it, on Severn river
under the blue
driving our small boat through.

You would not know him now...
but still he died
nobly, so cover him over
with violets of pride
purple from Severn side.

Cover him, cover him soon!
and with thick-set
masses of memoried flowers -
hide that red wet
thing I must forget.