A Private Poem by Edward Thomas
A Private
This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the town,
Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the down
In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps
More sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.
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4/26/2024 12:07:02 AM # 1.0.0.1119
What a beautifully constructed poem! It certainly compares to any great painting I have ever seen.