Edward Thomas

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

poet Edward Thomas
#180 on top 500 poets

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

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'

    24 person liked.
    		46 person did not like.
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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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