Page:Poems (Edward Thomas, 1917).djvu/63

 Whether on mountain side or street of town.

The south wall warms me: November has begun,

Yet never shone the sun as fair as now

While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough

With spangles of the morning's storm drop down

Because the starling shakes it, whistling what

Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot

That there is nothing, too, like March's sun,

Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's,

Or January's, or February's, great days:

And August, September, October, and December

Have equal days, all different from November.

No day of any month but I have said—

Or, if I could live long enough, should say—

"There's nothing like the sun that shines to-day".

There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.

WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH

AN OLD SONG

sun set, the wind fell, the sea

Was like a mirror shaking:

The one small wave that clapped the land

A mile-long snake of foam was making

Where tide had smoothed and wind had dried

The vacant sand.

A light divided the swollen clouds

And lay most perfectly 57