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The Glory

The glory of the beauty of the morning, -The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;

The blackbird that has found it, and the

That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;

White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;

The heat, the stir, the sublime

Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -The glory invites me, yet it leaves me

All I can ever do, all I can be,

Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue,

The happiness I fancy fit to

In beauty's presence.

Shall I now this

Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell,

Wisdom or strength to match this beauty,

And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops,

In hope to find whatever it is I seek,

Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming

That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?

Or must I be content with

As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?

And shall I ask at the day's end once

What beauty is, and what I can have

By happiness?

And shall I let all go,

Glad, weary, or both?

Or shall I perhaps

That I was happy oft and oft before,

Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent,

How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to,

Is Time?

I cannot bite the day to the core.

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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 …

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