Edward Thomas (1878 - 1917)
The New HouseNOW first, as I shut the door,
I was alone
In the new house; and the wind
Began to moan. Old at once was the house,
And I was old;
My ears were teased with the dread
Of what was foretold, Nights of storm, days of mist, without end;
Sad days when the sun
Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs
Not yest begun. All was foretold me; naught
Could I foresee;
But I learnt how the wind would sound
After these things should be
 UK Buyers | Purchase the BookCollected Poems (Paperback)
by Edward Thomas (Author) Though sometimes classified with Owen, Rosenberg and Sassoon as a 'war poet', he was rather a poet who died tragically in the war, and whose main subjects were the English countryside and its people, and the solitude of the observing self. The present edition offers the complete poems together with detailed editorial apparatus in what has become acknowledged as the standard edition by R. George Thomas. It also includes Thomas's remarkable prose War Diary of 1917.
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