Poems by Edward Thomas — Poems by Edward Thomas Section 1
THE TRUMPET
RISE up, rise up, And, as the trumpet blowing Chases the dreams of men, As the dawn glowing The stars that left unlit The land and water, Rise up and scatter The dew that covers The print of last night's lovers-- Scatter it, scatter it!
While you are listening To the clear horn, Forget, men, everything On this earth newborn, Except that it is lovelier Than any mysteries.
Open your eyes to the air That has washed the eyes of the stars Through all the dewy night: Up with the light, To the old wars;
Arise, arise!
THE SIGN-POST
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;
The smoke of the traveller's-joy is puffed Over hawthorn berry and hazel tuft.
I read the sign.
Which way shall I go?
A voice says: You would not have doubted so At twenty.
Another voice gentle with scorn Says: At twenty you wished you had never been born.
One hazel lost a leaf of gold From a tuft at the tip, when the first voice told The other he wished to know what 'twould be To be sixty by this same post.
"You shall see," He laughed--and I had to join his laughter-- "You shall see; but either before or after, Whatever happens, it must befall, A mouthful of earth to remedy all Regrets and wishes shall freely be given;
And if there be a flaw in that heaven 'Twill be freedom to wish, and your wish may be To be here or anywhere talking to me, No matter what the weather, on earth, At any age between death and birth,-- To see what day or night can be, The sun and the frost, the land and the sea, Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,-- With a poor man of any sort, down to a king, Standing upright out in the air Wondering where he shall journey, O where?"
TEARS
IT seems I have no tears left.
They should have fallen-- Their ghosts, if tears have ghosts, did fall--that day When twenty hounds streamed by me, not yet combed out But still all equals in their rage of gladness Upon the scent, made one, like a great dragon In Blooming Meadow that bends towards the sun And once bore hops: and on that other day When I stepped out from the double-shadowed Tower Into an April morning, stirring and sweet And warm.
Strange solitude was there and silence.
A mightier charm than any in the Tower Possessed the courtyard.
They were changing guard Soldiers in line, young English countrymen, Fair-haired and ruddy, in white tunics.
Drums And fifes were playing "The British Grenadiers".
The men, the music piercing that solitude And silence, told me truths I had not dreamed And have forgotten since their beauty passed.
TWO PEWITS
UNDER the after-sunset sky Two pewits sport and cry, More white than is the moon on high Riding the dark surge silently;
More black than earth.
Their cry Is the one sound under the sky.
They alone move, now low, now high, And merrily they cry To the mischievous Spring sky, Plunging earthward, tossing high, Over the ghost who wonders why So merrily they cry and fly, Nor choose 'twixt earth and sky, While the moon's quarter silently Rides, and earth rests as silently.
THE MANOR FARM
THE rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills Ran and sparkled down each side of the road Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gilding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old Manor Farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size.
The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw.
The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons nestled.
There was no sound but one.
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught And smiled quietly.
But 'twas not Winter-- Rather a season of bliss unchangeable Awakened from farm and church where it had lain Safe under tile and thatch for ages since This England, Old already, was called Merry.
