Poems by Edward Thomas — Poems by Edward Thomas Section 11

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 still and stiff, Like me who have no love which this wild rain Has not dissolved except the love of death, If love it be towards what is perfect and Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

"HOME" FAIR was the morning, fair our tempers, and We had seen nothing fairer than that land, Though strange, and the untrodden snow that made Wild of the tame, casting out all that was Not wild and rustic and old; and we were glad.

Fair, too, was afternoon, and first to pass Were we that league of snow, next the north wind There was nothing to return for, except need, And yet we sang nor ever stopped for speed, As we did often with the start behind.

Faster still strode we when we came in sight Of the cold roofs where we must spend the night.

Happy we had not been there, nor could be.

Though we had tasted sleep and food and fellowship Together long.

"How quick" to someone's lip The words came, "will the beaten horse run home."

The word "home" raised a smile in us all three, And one repeated it, smiling just so That all knew what he meant and none would say.

Between three counties far apart that lay We were divided and looked strangely each At the other, and we knew we were not friends But fellows in a union that ends With the necessity for it, as it ought.

Never a word was spoken, not a thought Was thought, of what the look meant with the word "Home" as we walked and watched the sunset blurred.

And then to me the word, only the word, "Homesick," as it were playfully occurred: No more.

If I should ever more admit Than the mere word I could not endure it For a day longer: this captivity Must somehow come to an end, else I should be Another man, as often now I seem, Or this life be only an evil dream.

THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN

THERE'S nothing like the sun as the year dies, Kind as it can be, this world being made so, To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, To all things that it touches except snow, Whether on mountain side or street of town.

The south wall warms me: November has begun, Yet never shone the sun as fair as now While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough With spangles of the morning's storm drop down Because the starling shakes it, whistling what Once swallows sang.

But I have not forgot That there is nothing, too, like March's sun, Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's, Or January's, or February's, great days: And August, September, October, and December Have equal days, all different from November.

No day of any month but I have said-- Or, if I could live long enough, should say-- "There's nothing like the sun that shines to-day" There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.

WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH

WHEN he should laugh the wise man knows full well: For he knows what is truly laughable.

But wiser is the man who laughs also, Or holds his laughter, when the foolish do.

AN OLD SONG

THE sun set, the wind fell, the sea Was like a mirror shaking: The one small wave that clapped the land A mile-long snake of foam was making Where tide had smoothed and wind had dried The vacant sand.

A light divided the swollen clouds And lay most perfectly Like a straight narrow footbridge bright That crossed over the sea to me;

And no one else in the whole world Saw that same sight.

I walked elate, my bridge always Just one step from my feet: A robin sang, a shade in shade: And all I did was to repeat: "I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid."

The sailors' song of merry loving With dusk and sea-gull's mewing Mixed sweet, the lewdness far outweighed By the wild charm the chorus played: "I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid: A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin, I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid."

_In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid-- Mark well what I do say-- In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid And she was a mistress of her trade: I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid: A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin, I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.

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