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A Private
(3 March 1878 - 9 April 1917 / London / England)

A Private

Poem By Edward Thomas

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the town,
Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the down
In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps
More sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.

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Comments (1)

What a beautifully constructed poem! It certainly compares to any great painting I have ever seen.


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