Happy Friday!

My chosen poem this week is by the English poet and writer Philip Edward Thomas (1878-1917).

Beauty

What does it means? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,
No man, woman, or child alive could please
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh
Because I sit and frame an epitaph -
'Here lies all that no one loved of him
And that loved no one.' Then in a trice that whim
Has wearied. But, though I am like a river
At fall of evening while it seems that never
Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart, some fraction of me, happily
Floats through the window even now to a tree
Down in the missing, dim-lit, quiet vale,
Not like a pewit that returns to wail
For something it has lost, but like a dove
That slants unswerving to its home and love.
There I find my rest, as through the dusk air
Flies what yet lives in me: Beauty is there. 

Edward Thomas

Happy Reading

Etsy

• Instagram
• Facebook

Happy Friday!

My chosen poem today is by one of my favourite poets, Edward Thomas (1878-1917).

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 mountains 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:
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 today.'
There's nothing like the sun till we are dead. 

Edward Thomas

Happy Reading

Etsy

• Instagram
• Facebook