Poèmes sur le thème : spring

Edward Thomas

The Word

THERE are so many things I have forgot, That once were much to me, or that were not, All lost, as is a childless woman's child And its child's children, in the undefiled Abyss of what can never be again. I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men That fought and lost or won in the old wars, Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars. Some things I have forgot that I forget. But lesser things there are, remembered yet, Than all the others. One name that I have not-- Though 'tis an empty thingless name--forgot Never can die because Spring after Spring Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing. There is always one at midday saying it clear And tart--the name, only the name I hear.

But These Things Also

BUT these things also are Spring's-- On banks by the roadside the grass Long-dead that is greyer now Than all the Winter it was; The shell of a little snail bleached In the grass; chip of flint, and mite Of chalk; and the small birds' dung In splashes of purest white: All the white things a man mistakes For earliest violets Who seeks through Winter's ruins Something to pay Winter's debts, While the North blows, and starling flocks By chattering on and on Keep their spirits up in the mist, And Spring's here, Winter's not gone.