Edward Thomas

All day and night, save winter, every weather ,Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop The aspens at the cross-roads talk together

,I have come to the borders of sleep The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose

Every time the horses turned Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned ,Upon the handles to say or ask a word

:Often I had gone this way before But now it seemed I never could be ;And never had been anywhere else

What does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease No man, woman, or child alive could please Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh

Is this the road that climbs above and bends ‎‏Round what was once a chalk-pit: now it is ‎‏.By accident an amphitheatre

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough :Long worn out, and the roller made of stone

There never was a finer day ,—And never will be while May is May ;The third, and not the last of its kind But though fair and clear the two behind

The last light has gone out of the world, except This moonlight lying on the grass like frost .Beyond the brink of the tall elm’s shadow