إدوارد توماس

,When Winter’s ahead What can you read in November That you read in April ?When Winter’s dead

The sorrow of true love is a great sorrow :And true love parting blackens a bright morrow Yet almost they equal joys, since their despair Is but hope blinded by its tears, and clear .Above the storm the heavens wait to be seen

;Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest .Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof

–,The glory of the beauty of the morning  ;The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew The blackbird that has found it, and the dove

After night’s thunder far away had rolled ,The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold ,And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled

’.Twill take some getting.’ ‘Sir, I think ’twill so” The old man stared up at the mistletoe That hung too high in the poplar’s crest for plunder

Yes, I remember Adlestrop —The name, because one afternoonOf heat the express-train drew up thereUnwontedly. It was late June.

Dark is the forest and deep, and overhead Hang stars like seeds of light In vain, though not since they were sown was bred

,The dim sea glints chill. The white sun is shy ,And the skeleton weeds and the never-dry Rough, long grasses keep white with frost ;At the hilltop by the finger-post

He was the one man I met up in the woods ,That stormy New Year’s morning; and at first sight Fifty yards off, I could not tell how much ,Of the strange tripod was a man. His body

:A fortnight before Christmas Gypsies were everywhere .Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to the fair ‘.My gentleman,’ said one, ‘you’ve got a lucky face’