Edward Thomas

OUT in the dark over the snow The fallow fawns invisible go With the fallow doe; And the winds blow Fast as the stars are slow.

Stealthily the dark haunts round And, when a lamp goes, without sound At a swifter bound Than the swiftest hound, Arrives, and all else is drowned;

And I and star and wind and deer, Are in the dark together,--near, Yet far,--and fear Drums on my ear In that sage company drear.

How weak and little is the light, All the universe of sight, Love and delight, Before the might, If you love it not, of night.

IT seems I have no tears left. They should have fallen-- Their ghosts, if tears have ghosts, did fall--that day When twenty hounds streamed by me, not yet combed out But still all equals in their rage of gladness Upon the scent, made one, like a great dragon In Blooming Meadow that bends towards the sun And once bore hops: and on that other day When I stepped out from the double-shadowed Tower Into an April morning, stirring and sweet And warm. Strange solitude was there and silence. A mightier charm than any in the Tower Possessed the courtyard. They were changing guard Soldiers in line, young English countrymen, Fair-haired and ruddy, in white tunics. Drums And fifes were playing "The British Grenadiers". The men, the music piercing that solitude And silence, told me truths I had not dreamed And have forgotten since their beauty passed.

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 elder 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 for ever be hers, Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,-- I shall give them all to my elder daughter.

What will they do when I am gone? It is plain That they will do without me as the rain Can do without the flowers and the grass That profit by it and must perish without. I have but seen them in the loud street pass; And I was naught to them. I turned about To see them disappearing carelessly. But what if I in them as they in me Nourished what has great value and no price? Almost I thought that rain thirsts for a draught Which only in the blossom's chalice lies, Until that one turned back and lightly laughed.

THE new moon hangs like an ivory bugle In the naked frosty blue; And the ghylls of the forest, already blackened By Winter, are blackened anew.

The brooks that cut up and increase the forest, As if they had never known The sun, are roaring with black hollow voices Betwixt rage and a moan.

But still the caravan-hut by the hollies Like a kingfisher gleams between: Round the mossed old hearths of the charcoal-burners First primroses ask to be seen.

The charcoal-burners are black, but their linen Blows white on the line; And white the letter the girl is reading Under that crescent fine;

And her brother who hides apart in a thicket, Slowly and surely playing On a whistle an olden nursery melody, Says far more than I am saying.

WHEN he should laugh the wise man knows full well: For he knows what is truly laughable. But wiser is the man who laughs also, Or holds his laughter, when the foolish do.

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.

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.