"willows, willow-herb, and grass,/And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry". And in the closing lines it's as if the poem dissolves into birdsong: "And for that minute a blackbird sang/Close by, and round him, mistier,/Farther and farther, all the birds/Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire." Even during battle in France, [Edward] Thomas never lost his heightened receptivity to nature or his gift for noticing the movement of a thrush or the effects of sunlight on frost.
from Financial Times: Now All Roads Lead to France
then Daily Mail: Genius who died because he couldn't take a joke . . .
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