Edward Thomas

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

Edward Thomas Poems

1. Roads 6/16/2014
2. The Sorrow of True Love  5/4/2015
3. March 1/7/2015
4. House And Man 4/7/2010
5. To-Night 4/7/2010
6. Home 1 4/7/2010
7. Man And Dog 4/7/2010
8. I Never Saw That Land Before 4/7/2010
9. Interval 4/7/2010
10. How At Once 4/7/2010
11. The Huxter 4/7/2010
12. If I Were To Own 4/7/2010
13. Lob 4/7/2010
14. Head And Bottle 4/7/2010
15. Home 3 4/7/2010
16. The Hollow Wood 4/7/2010
17. Two Pewits 4/7/2010
18. Home 2 4/7/2010
19. The Child On The Cliffs 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. The Lofty Sky 4/7/2010
26. In Memoriam (Easter, 1915) 4/7/2010
27. Haymaking 4/7/2010
28. Lovers 4/7/2010
29. The Child In The Orchard 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. Good-Night 4/7/2010
34. The Gypsy 4/7/2010
35. The Combe 4/7/2010
36. The Green Roads 4/7/2010
37. I Built Myself A House Of Glass 4/7/2010
38. The Chalk-Pit 4/7/2010
39. The Bridge 4/7/2010
40. A Gentleman 4/7/2010

Comments about Edward Thomas

  • jack whitfeld (4/27/2018 2:16:00 PM)

    lol i live in adlestrop

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • 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.

  • Nawaz Hassan (1/16/2005 9:24:00 AM)

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

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


Thinking of her had saddened me at first,
Until I saw the sun on the celandines lie
Redoubled, and she stood up like a flame,
A living thing, not what before I nursed,
The shadow I was growing to love almost,
The phantom, not the creature with bright eye
That I had thought never to see, once lost.

She found the celandines of February

[Report Error]