Edward Thomas

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

Edward Thomas Poems

1. The Sorrow of True Love  5/4/2015
2. Roads 6/16/2014
3. March 1/7/2015
4. I Never Saw That Land Before 4/7/2010
5. House And Man 4/7/2010
6. To-Night 4/7/2010
7. Home 1 4/7/2010
8. Man And Dog 4/7/2010
9. Head And Bottle 4/7/2010
10. Interval 4/7/2010
11. How At Once 4/7/2010
12. The Huxter 4/7/2010
13. Lob 4/7/2010
14. Home 3 4/7/2010
15. The Hollow Wood 4/7/2010
16. Two Pewits 4/7/2010
17. Home 2 4/7/2010
18. The Child On The Cliffs 4/7/2010
19. If I Were To Own 4/7/2010
20. The Barn And The Down 4/7/2010
21. It Was Upon 4/7/2010
22. Health 4/7/2010
23. The Other 4/7/2010
24. The Barn 4/7/2010
25. Good-Night 4/7/2010
26. In Memoriam (Easter, 1915) 4/7/2010
27. Haymaking 4/7/2010
28. The Child In The Orchard 4/7/2010
29. The Combe 4/7/2010
30. The Cuckoo 4/7/2010
31. This Is No Case Of Petty Right Or Wrong 4/7/2010
32. The Ash Grove 4/7/2010
33. The Lofty Sky 4/7/2010
34. Fifty Faggots 4/7/2010
35. I Built Myself A House Of Glass 4/7/2010
36. The Bridge 4/7/2010
37. The Gypsy 4/7/2010
38. The Green Roads 4/7/2010
39. April 4/7/2010
40. Lovers 4/7/2010

Comments about Edward Thomas

  • Tony Walton (8/27/2012 2:23:00 PM)

    Edward Thomas is considered by many major poets, such as T.S.Eliot and Ted Hughes, to have a big influence on the development of English poetry in the 20th century. Hughes said: He is the father of us all.
    Thomas and Robert Frost were best friends. It was Frost who encouraged Thomas to turn to poetry at the age of 36, three years before his death.
    He is still not as widely known as Wilfred Owen, who was the other significant poet to be killed on the Western Front.
    Please read my poem 'Roads To France' written about him and in his memory.

    43 person liked.
    27 person did not like.
  • Nawaz Hassan (1/16/2005 9:24:00 AM)

    i need the Comparison between 'Tall Nettles' and 'Thistles'

Best Poem of Edward Thomas

Rain

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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