A Private

Edward Thomas

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the town,
Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the down
In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps
More sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.

Next 10 Poems

• Edward Thomas : Adlestrop
• Edward Thomas : Beauty
• Edward Thomas : Bob's Lane
• Edward Thomas : Celandine
• Edward Thomas : Cock-crow
• Edward Thomas : If I Should Ever By Chance
• Edward Thomas : Lights Out
• Edward Thomas : October
• Edward Thomas : Rain
• Edward Thomas : Snow

Previous 10 Poems

• Dylan Thomas : Where Once The Waters Of Your Face
• Dylan Thomas : When, Like A Running Grave
• Dylan Thomas : When Once The Twilight Locks No Longer
• Dylan Thomas : When All My Five And Country Senses See
• Dylan Thomas : Was There A Time
• Dylan Thomas : Vision And Prayer [i]
• Dylan Thomas : Twenty-four Years
• Dylan Thomas : To-day, This Insect
• Dylan Thomas : This Side Of The Truth
• Dylan Thomas : There Was A Saviour