1 min read
Слушать(AI)A Cat
She had a name among the children;
But no one loved though someone
Her, locked her out of doors at
And had her kittens duly drowned.
In Spring, nevertheless, this
Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales,
And birds of bright voice and plume and flight,
As well as scraps from neighbours’ pails.
I loathed and hated her for this;
One speckle on a thrush’s
Was worth a million such; and
She lived long, till God gave her rest.
Edward Thomas
Philip Edward Thomas (3 March 1878 – 9 April 1917) was a British poet, essayist, and novelist. He is considered a war poet, although few of his
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
In Memoriam
The flowers left thick at nightfall in the This Eastertide call into mind the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, Have gathered them and will do never again
The Word
There are so many things I have forgot, That once were much to me, or that were not, All lost, as is a childless woman's child And its child's children, in the undefiled Abyss of what can never be again I have forgot, too, names of ...
The Cherry Trees
The cherry trees bend over and are shedding, On the old road where all that passed are dead, Their petals, strewing the grass as for a This early May morn when there is none to wed
Early One Morning
Early one morning in May I set out, And nobody I knew was about I'm bound away for ever, Away somewhere, away for ever