in memory of Edward Thomas

If walking down a country lane
You stop to look at gathering clouds
And feel your life a prison-house,
Then think of sky

Open as pastures steeped in dew,
Mountains brightening
After thunder passes through,
A feather wavering in the light;

Or think of one
Who made a midnight requiem
From the rainfall

Of falling men,
As he lay unsleeping in mud
Warmer than some.