Edward Thomas

(3 March 1878 - 9 April 1917 / London / England)

Edward Thomas Poems

81. The Manor Farm 12/31/2002
82. The New House 12/31/2002
83. The Other 4/7/2010
84. The Owl 12/31/2002
85. The Path 12/31/2002
86. The Sign-Post 12/31/2002
87. The Sorrow of True Love  5/4/2015
88. The Trumpet 12/31/2002
89. The Word 12/31/2002
90. This Is No Case Of Petty Right Or Wrong 4/7/2010
91. To-Night 4/7/2010
92. Two Pewits 4/7/2010
93. Unknown 1/3/2003
94. When First I Came Here 12/31/2002
95. Words 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Edward Thomas


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.

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