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

Rain

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all ...

Read the full of Rain

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.

[Hata Bildir]