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Edward Thomas - Fifty Faggots
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There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag gots
That once were underwood of hazel and ash
In Jenny Pink`s copse. Now, by the hedge
Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone
Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next spring
A blackbird or 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
Foresee or more control than robin and wren.
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