Edward Thomas

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 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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#birds nests2 мин. чтения

Birds Nests

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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#the2 мин. чтения

The Lofty Sky

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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#the path2 мин. чтения

The Path

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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#words2 мин. чтения

Words

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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#one2 мин. чтения

No One So Much As You

No one so much as
Loves this my clay,
Or would lament as
Its dying day

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#tall nettles1 мин. чтения

Tall Nettles

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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#october2 мин. чтения

October

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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#fifty faggots1 мин. чтения

Fifty Faggots

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 glory2 мин. чтения

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;

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#snow1 мин. чтения

Snow

In the gloom of whiteness,
In the great silence of snow,
A child was
And bitterly saying:`Oh,

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#a cat1 мин. чтения

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

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#gone2 мин. чтения

Gone Gone Again

Gone, gone again,
May,
June,
July,

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#the owl2 мин. чтения

The Owl

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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#goodnight2 мин. чтения

Good-Night

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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#celandine2 мин. чтения

Celandine

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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#health2 мин. чтения

Health

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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