Under the Woods See all items with this value

When these old woods were young
The thrushes' ancestors
As sweetly sung
In the old years.
There was no garden here,
Apples nor misletoe;
No children dear
Ran to and fro.
New then was this thatched cot,
But the keeper was old,
And he had not
Much lead or gold.
Most silent beech and yew:
As he went round about
The woods to view
Seldom he shot.
But now that he is gone
Out of most memories,
Still lingers on,
A stoat of his,
But one, shrivelled and green,
And with no scent at all,
And barely seen
On this shed wall.

2977.txt

Thomas, Edward (1878-1917) See all items with this value

1979

1979-01-01

1979-12-31

Poem

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

2977.txt