Edward Thomas

(3 March 1878 - 9 April 1917 / London / England)

Edward Thomas Poems

1. A Cat 1/3/2003
2. A Gentleman 4/7/2010
3. A Private 12/31/2002
4. Adlestrop 12/31/2002
5. After Rain 4/7/2010
6. After You Speak 4/7/2010
7. Ambition 4/7/2010
8. And You, Helen 4/7/2010
9. April 4/7/2010
10. As The Clouds That Are So Light 4/7/2010
11. As The Team's Head- Brass 3/19/2003
12. Aspens 1/3/2003
13. Beauty 12/31/2002
14. Birds' Nests 4/7/2010
15. Bob's Lane 12/31/2002
16. But These Things Also 4/7/2010
17. Celandine 12/31/2002
18. Cock-Crow 12/31/2002
19. Digging 4/7/2010
20. Digging 2 4/7/2010
21. Early One Morning 4/7/2010
22. Fifty Faggots 4/7/2010
23. First Known When Lost 4/7/2010
24. For These 4/7/2010
25. Gone, Gone Again 4/7/2010
26. Good-Night 4/7/2010
27. Haymaking 4/7/2010
28. Head And Bottle 4/7/2010
29. Health 4/7/2010
30. Home 1 4/7/2010
31. Home 2 4/7/2010
32. Home 3 4/7/2010
33. House And Man 4/7/2010
34. How At Once 4/7/2010
35. I Built Myself A House Of Glass 4/7/2010
36. I Never Saw That Land Before 4/7/2010
37. If I Should Ever By Chance 12/31/2002
38. If I Were To Own 4/7/2010
39. In Memoriam 1/3/2003
40. In Memoriam (Easter, 1915) 4/7/2010
Best Poem of 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 ...

Read the full of Adlestrop

Bob's 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.

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