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Poem by Edward Thomas


* * *


Gone, gone again,
May, June, July,
And August gone,
Again gone by,

Not memorable
Save that I saw them go,
As past the empty quays
The rivers flow.

And now again,
In the harvest rain,
The Blenheim oranges
Fall grubby from the trees,

As when I was young
And when the lost one was here
And when the war began
To turn young men to dung.

Look at the old house,
Outmoded, dignified,
Dark and untenanted,
With grass growing instead

Of the footsteps of life,
The friendliness, the strife;
In its beds have lain
Youth, love, age, and pain:

I am something like that;
Only I am not dead,
Still breathing and interested
In the house that is not dark:

I am something like that:
Not one pane to reflect the sun,
For the schoolboys to throw at
They have broken every one.



Edward Thomas


Edward Thomas's other poems:
  1. When We Two Walked
  2. Some Eyes Condemn
  3. What Shall I Give?
  4. Women He Liked
  5. Bright Clouds


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