Edward Thomas

Edward Thomas

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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 poems deal directly with his war experiences, and his career in poetry only came after he had already been a successful writer and literary critic.
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he summer nests uncovered by autumn wind,
Some torn, others dislodged, all dark,
Everyone sees them: low or high in tree,
Or hedge, or single bush, they hang like a mark
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To-day I want the sky,
The tops of the high hills,
Above the last man's house,
His hedges, and his cows,
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Running along a bank, a parapet That saves from the precipitous wood below The level road, there is a path
It serves Children for looking down the long smooth steep,
Between the legs of beech and yew, to where A fallen tree checks the si...
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Out of us all That make rhymes Will you choose Sometimes - As the winds use A crack in a wall Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain To whistle through - Choose me,
You English words
I know you:
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No one so much as
Loves this my clay,
Or would lament as
Its dying day
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Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now
This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bl...
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The green elm with the one great bough of gold Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one, — The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white, Harebell and scabious and tormentil, That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun, Bow down to; and th...
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There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag
That once were underwood of hazel and
In Jenny Pink's copse
Now, by the
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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;
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In the gloom of whiteness,
In the great silence of snow,
A child was
And bitterly saying:`Oh,
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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
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Gone, gone again,
May,
June,
July,
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Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof
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The skylarks are far behind that sang over the down;
I can hear no more those suburb nightingales;
Thrushes and blackbirds sing in the gardens of the
In vain: the noise of man, beast, and machine prevails
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Thinking of her had saddened me at first,
Until I saw the sun on the celandines
Redoubled, and she stood up like a flame,
A living thing, not what before I nursed,
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Four miles at a leap, over the dark hollow land,
To the frosted steep of the down and its junipers black,
Travels my eye with equal ease and delight:
And scarce could my body leap four yards
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