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Best Famous Edward Thomas Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Edward Thomas poems. This is a select list of the best famous Edward Thomas poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Edward Thomas poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Edward Thomas poems.

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by Edward Thomas | |

Adlestrop

 Yes, I remember Adlestrop -- 
The name, because one afternoon 
Of heat the express-train drew up there 
Unwontedly.
It was late June.
The steam hissed.
Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came On the bare platform.
What I saw Was Adlestrop -- only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.


by Edward Thomas | |

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 bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.


by Edward Thomas | |

Thaw

 OVER the land half freckled with snow half-thawed 
The speculating rooks at their nests cawed, 
And saw from elm-tops, delicate as a flower of grass, 
What we below could not see, Winter pass.


by Edward Thomas | |

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 wedding
This early May morn when there is none to wed.


by Edward Thomas | |

The Dark Forest

 Dark is the forest and deep, and overhead
Hang stars like seeds of light
In vain, though not since they were sown was bred
Anything more bright.
And evermore mighty multitudes ride About, nor enter in; Of the other multitudes that dwell inside Never yet was one seen.
The forest foxglove is purple, the marguerite Outside is gold and white, Nor can those that pluck either blossom greet The others, day or night.


by Edward Thomas | |

Sowing

 IT was a perfect day 
For sowing; just 
As sweet and dry was the ground 
As tobacco-dust.
I tasted deep the hour Between the far Owl's chuckling first soft cry And the first star.
A long stretched hour it was; Nothing undone Remained; the early seeds All safely sown.
And now, hark at the rain, Windless and light, Half a kiss, half a tear, Saying good-night.


by Edward Thomas | |

Celandine

 Thinking of her had saddened me at first,
Until I saw the sun on the celandines lie
Redoubled, and she stood up like a flame,
A living thing, not what before I nursed,
The shadow I was growing to love almost,
The phantom, not the creature with bright eye
That I had thought never to see, once lost.
She found the celandines of February Always before us all.
Her nature and name Were like those flowers, and now immediately For a short swift eternity back she came, Beautiful, happy, simply as when she wore Her brightest bloom among the winter hues Of all the world; and I was happy too, Seeing the blossoms and the maiden who Had seen them with me Februarys before, Bending to them as in and out she trod And laughed, with locks sweeping the mossy sod.
But this was a dream; the flowers were not true, Until I stooped to pluck from the grass there One of five petals and I smelt the juice Which made me sigh, remembering she was no more, Gone like a never perfectly recalled air.


by Edward Thomas | |

If I Should Ever By Chance

 IF I should ever by chance grow rich 
I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, 
Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, 
And let them all to my eldest daughter.
The rent I shall ask of her will be only Each year's first violets, white and lonely, The first primroses and orchises-- She must find them before I do, that is.
But if she finds a blossom on furze Without rent they shall all forever be hers, Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,-- I shall give them all to my elder daughter.


by Edward Thomas | |

Lights Out

 I have come to the borders of sleep, 
The unfathomable deep 
Forest where all must lose 
Their way, however straight, 
Or winding, soon or late; 
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track That, since the dawn's first crack, Up to the forest brink, Deceived the travellers, Suddenly now blurs, And in they sink.
Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends, All pleasure and all trouble, Although most sweet or bitter, Here ends in sleep that is sweeter Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book Or face of dearest look That I would not turn from now To go into the unknown I must enter and leave alone I know not how.
The tall forest towers; Its cloudy foliage lowers Ahead, shelf above shelf; Its silence I hear and obey That I may lose my way And myself.


by Edward Thomas | |

Like the Touch of Rain

 Like the touch of rain she was
On a man's flesh and hair and eyes
When the joy of walking thus
Has taken him by surprise:

With the love of the storm he burns,
He sings, he laughs, well I know how,
But forgets when he returns
As I shall not forget her 'Go now'.
Those two words shut a door Between me and the blessed rain That was never shut before And will not open again.


by Edward Thomas | |

No One So Much As You

 No one so much as you
Loves this my clay, 
Or would lament as you
Its dying day.
You know me through and through Though I have not told, And though with what you know You are not bold.
None ever was so fair As I thought you: Not a word can I bear Spoken against you.
All that I ever did For you seemed coarse Compared with what I hid Nor put in force.
My eyes scarce dare meet you Lest they should prove I but respond to you And do not love.
We look and understand, We cannot speak Except in trifles and Words the most weak.
For I at most accept Your love, regretting That is all: I have kept Only a fretting That I could not return All that you gave And could not ever burn With the love you have, Till sometimes it did seem Better it were Never to see you more Than linger here With only gratitude Instead of love - A pine in solitude Cradling a dove.


by Edward Thomas | |

The Lane

 Some day, I think, there will be people enough
In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries
Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight
Broad lane where now September hides herself
In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.
To-day, where yesterday a hundred sheep Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway Of waters that no vessel ever sailed .
.
.
It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries His song.
For heat it is like summer too.
This might be winter's quiet.
While the glint Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts - One mile - and those bells ring, little I know Or heed if time be still the same, until The lane ends and once more all is the same.


by Edward Thomas | |

The Long Small Room

 THE long small room that showed willows in the west 
Narrowed up to the end the fireplace filled, 
Although not wide.
I liked it.
No one guessed What need or accident made them so build.
Only the moon, the mouse, and the sparrow peeped In from the ivy round the casement thick.
Of all they saw and heard there they shall keep The tale for the old ivy and older brick.
When I look back I am like moon, sparrow, and mouse That witnessed what they could never understand Or alter or prevent in the dark house.
One thing remains the same--this is my right hand Crawling crab-like over the clean white page, Resting awhile each morning on the pillow, Then once more starting to crawl on towards age.
The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow.


by Edward Thomas | |

The New House

 NOW first, as I shut the door, 
I was alone 
In the new house; and the wind 
Began to moan.
Old at once was the house, And I was old; My ears were teased with the dread Of what was foretold, Nights of storm, days of mist, without end; Sad days when the sun Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs Not yest begun.
All was foretold me; naught Could I foresee; But I learnt how the wind would sound After these things should be


by Edward Thomas | |

The Trumpet

 Rise up, rise up,
And, as the trumpet blowing
Chases the dreams of men,
As the dawn glowing
The stars that left unlit
The land and water,
Rise up and scatter
The dew that covers
The print of last night's lovers - 
Scatter it, scatter it!

While you are listening
To the clear horn,
Forget, men, everything
On this earth newborn,
Except that it is lovelier
Than any mysteries.
Open your eyes to the air That has washed the eyes of the stars Through all the dewy night: Up with the light, To the old wars; Arise, arise!


by Edward Thomas | |

When First I Came Here

 WHEN first I came here I had hope, 
Hope for I knew not what.
Fast beat My heart at the sight of the tall slope Or grass and yews, as if my feet Only by scaling its steps of chalk Would see something no other hill Ever disclosed.
And now I walk Down it the last time.
Never will My heart beat so again at sight Of any hill although as fair And loftier.
For infinite The change, late unperceived, this year, The twelfth, suddenly, shows me plain.
Hope now,--not health nor cheerfulness, Since they can come and go again, As often one brief hour witnesses,-- Just hope has gone forever.
Perhaps I may love other hills yet more Than this: the future and the maps Hide something I was waiting for.
One thing I know, that love with chance And use and time and necessity Will grow, and louder the heart's dance At parting than at meeting be.


by Edward Thomas | |

A Cat

 She had a name among the children;
But no one loved though someone owned
Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime
And had her kittens duly drowned.
In Spring, nevertheless, this cat 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 breast Was worth a million such; and yet She lived long, till God gave her rest.


by Edward Thomas | |

A Private

 This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
"I slept.
" None knew which bush.
Above the town, Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the down In Wiltshire.
And where now at last he sleeps More sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.


by Edward Thomas | |

Bobs Lane

 Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,
Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he
Loved horses.
He himself was like a cob And leather-coloured.
Also he loved a tree.
For the life in them he loved most living things, But a tree chiefly.
All along the lane He planted elms where now the stormcock sings That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.
Till then the track had never had a name For all its thicket and the nightingales That should have earned it.
No one was to blame To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.
Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now None passes there because the mist and the rain Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane.