Edward Thomas
There they stand, on their
ends, the fifty faggots
That once were underwood
of hazel and ash
by the hedge
Close packed, they make a
thicket fancy alone
Can creep through with the
mouse and wren. Next
Spring
A blackbird or a robin will
nest there,
Accustomed to them,
thinking they will remain
Whatever is for ever to a
bird.
This Spring it is too late; the
swift has come,
‘Twas a hot day for carrying
them up:
Better they will never warm
me, though they must
Light several Winters’ fires.
Before they are done
The war will have ended,
many other things
Have ended, maybe, that I
can no more
than robin and wren.
—1915