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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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Written by Edward Thomas |

Old Man

 Old Man, or Lads-Love, - in the name there’s nothing
To one that knows not Lads-Love, or Old Man, 
The hoar green feathery herb, almost a tree, 
Growing with rosemary and lavender.
Even to one that knows it well, the names Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: At least, what that is clings not to the names In spite of time.
And yet I like the names.
The herb itself I like not, but for certain I love it, as someday the child will love it Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling The shreds at last on to the path, Thinking perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs Her fingers and runs off.
The bush is still But half as tall as she, though it is not old; So well she clips it.
Not a word she says; And I ca only wonder how much hereafter She will remember, with that bitter scent, Of garden rows, and ancient damson trees Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door A low thick bush beside the door, and me Forbidding her to pick.
As for myself, Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.
I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds, Sniff them and think and sniff again and try Once more to think what it is I am remembering, Always in vain.
I cannot like the scent, Yet I would rather give up others more sweet, With no meaning, than this bitter one.
I have mislaid the key.
I sniff the spray And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing; Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait For what I should, yet never can, remember; No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush Of Lad’s-love, or Old Man, no child beside, Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate; Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end

Written by Edward Thomas |


 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.

Written 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.

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Written by Edward Thomas |

The Manor Farm

 THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills 
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road 
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; Nor did I value that thin gliding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old manor farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size.
The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw.
The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons nestled.
There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught And smiled quietly.
But 'twas not winter-- Rather a season of bliss unchangeable, Awakened from farm and church where it had lain Safe under tile and latch for ages since This England, Old already, was called Merry.

Written 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.

Written by Edward Thomas |


 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.

Written by Edward Thomas |

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 sight: while men and women Content themselves with the road and what they see Over the bank, and what the children tell.
The path, winding like silver, trickles on, Bordered and even invaded by thinnest moss That tries to cover roots and crumbling chalk With gold, olive, and emerald, but in vain.
The children wear it.
They have flattened the bank On top, and silvered it between the moss With the current of their feet, year after year.
But the road is houseless, and leads not to school.
To see a child is rare there, and the eye Has but the road, the wood that overhangs And underyawns it, and the path that looks As if it led on to some legendary Or fancied place where men have wished to go And stay; till, sudden, it ends where the wood ends.

Written by Edward Thomas |

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 mighty men That fought and lost or won in the old wars, Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.
Some things I have forgot that I forget.
But lesser things there are, remembered yet, Than all the others.
One name that I have not -- Though 'tis an empty thingless name -- forgot Never can die because Spring after Spring Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing.
There is always one at midday saying it clear And tart -- the name, only the name I hear.
While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent That is like food, or while I am content With the wild rose scent that is like memory, This name suddenly is cried out to me From somewhere in the bushes by a bird Over and over again, a pure thrush word.

Written 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.

Written by Edward Thomas |

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 dove
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 vacancy
Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -
The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning
All I can ever do, all I can be, 
Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue, 
The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
In beauty's presence.
Shall I now this day Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell, Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start 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 things That we know naught of, in the hazel copse? Or must I be content with discontent As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings? And shall I ask at the day's end once more What beauty is, and what I can have meant By happiness? And shall I let all go, Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written by Edward Thomas |


 All day and night, save winter, every weather,
Above the inn, the smithy and the shop, 
The aspens at the cross-roads talk together
Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top.
Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing Of hammer, shoe and anvil; out of the inn The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing - The sounds that for these fifty years have been.
The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, And over lightless pane and footless road, Empty as sky, with every other sound No ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode, A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, In the tempest or the night of nightingales, To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room.
And it would be the same were no house near.
Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear But need not listen, more than to my rhymes.
Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves We cannot other than an aspen be That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, Or so men think who like a different tree.

Written 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