Edward Thomas

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

Edward Thomas Poems

41. First Known When Lost 4/7/2010
42. The Green Roads 4/7/2010
43. Over The Hills 4/7/2010
44. April 4/7/2010
45. The Brook 4/7/2010
46. For These 4/7/2010
47. Liberty 4/7/2010
48. Gone, Gone Again 4/7/2010
49. Birds' Nests 4/7/2010
50. The Gallows 4/7/2010
51. As The Clouds That Are So Light 4/7/2010
52. Digging 4/7/2010
53. Digging 2 4/7/2010
54. The Long Small Room 12/31/2002
55. The Sign-Post 12/31/2002
56. Ambition 4/7/2010
57. The Path 12/31/2002
58. The Trumpet 12/31/2002
59. Early One Morning 4/7/2010
60. The Manor Farm 12/31/2002
61. The Lane 1/3/2003
62. After You Speak 4/7/2010
63. The New House 12/31/2002
64. The Word 12/31/2002
65. A Private 12/31/2002
66. Unknown 1/3/2003
67. In Memoriam 1/3/2003
68. Bob's Lane 12/31/2002
69. Sowing 12/31/2002
70. When First I Came Here 12/31/2002
71. Cock-Crow 12/31/2002
72. If I Should Ever By Chance 12/31/2002
73. And You, Helen 4/7/2010
74. After Rain 4/7/2010
75. But These Things Also 4/7/2010
76. October 12/31/2002
77. Snow 12/31/2002
78. The Dark Forest 1/3/2003
79. Old Man 3/23/2003
80. Lights Out 12/31/2002

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, 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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