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.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Bob's Lane by Edward Thomas )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Recognition Of Life, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- बिमा, Ronjoy Brahma
- i still weep for June~, Mandolyn ...
- Uncombed Sanctity, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Good Morning, Cathy Hodgson
- Foolish People Sayings, Terence G. Craddock
- Today's Journey, Cathy Hodgson
- Death Wishes, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- A Prayer For Peace, Savita Tyagi
- Unknown Qualities, RoseAnn V. Shawiak