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Edward Thomas
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.
There was a time when in late afternoon
The four-o’clocks would fold up at day’s close
Pink-white in prayer, and ’neath the floating moon
I lay with them in calm and sweet repose.
And in the open spaces I could sleep,
Half-naked to the shining worlds above;
Peace came with sleep and sleep was long and deep,
Gained without effort, sweet like early love.
But now no balm--nor drug nor weed nor wine--
Can bring true rest to cool my body’s fever,
Nor sweeten in my mouth the acid brine,
That salts my choicest drink and will forever.
There was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,
Like mosaic, paven:
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,
Each a gem engraven;--
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake's blue chasm.
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long.
Nobody knows this little Rose --
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it --
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey --
On its breast to lie --
Only a Bird will wonder --
Only a Breeze will sigh --
Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!
A Flower will not trouble her, it has so small a Foot,
And yet if you compare the Lasts,
Hers is the smallest Boot --
beside the graves we speak
of new-born children
loudly, laughing where the dead
are deaf the living
clutching them in realms
too gross to hear them
heavy-hearted in warm spring
flowering gay brilliance
black limousines wind slowly
with their grave mourners past the
dark pines piled with
fresh flowers flowers
for life for transience for
beauty to tell of
the dead's latency
as living we walk pushing
My dear son,
thanks for the invitation
but I can’t come.
It’s spring time now
and you should know that I am busy.
The snow just died and I have to go to its funeral.
Leaf buds are going to be born soon
and I have to attend their birthday parties.
After that the flowers
are going to have
their wedding celebrations
and I cannot miss those.
You know,
last month death invited me too
but I told it that I couldn't go.
I said, “It’s spring...I'm busy”.
a scrap of satin - some wood
what is beneath the wood ?
dirt : the earth
it is cold
is it alive ?
it contains the stir of flowers
it contains the whispering grass
and above it all ?
some turf
the blue sky
what are you listening to ?
my dark blood
the heart plays a tattoo
beneath this pale linen
this wool-stuff
and ?
Where the flowers sleep,
Thank God ! I shall sleep, to-night.
Oh, come, butterfly !
But the march to Life . . .
Break song to sing the new song!
Clouds leap, flowers bloom.
I am among the careless dead
Who do not rise to see
Why I should hurry through their flowers
Beneath their willow tree,
Nor lift their hands from off their breasts
To beckon me.
But though I run so lightly through
The myrtle's rambling mass,
And though my feet step silently
Above the blowing grass.
And though they do not stir or speak —
They know I pass.