Page:Poems (Edward Thomas, 1917).djvu/23

 The wood is black,

With a misty steam.

Above, the cloud pack

Breaks for one gleam.

But the woodman's cot

By the ivied trees

Awakens not

To light or breeze.

It smokes aloft

Unwavering:

It hunches soft

Under storm's wing.

It has no care

For gleam or gloom:

It stays there

While I shall roam,

Die, and forget

The hill of trees,

The gleam, the wet,

This roaring peace.

LIKE THE TOUCH OF RAIN

the touch of rain she was

On a man's flesh and hair and eyes

When the joy of walking thus

Has taken him by surprise:

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