A wilder night
Coming makes way
For brief twilight.
Where the firm soaked road
Mounts beneath pines
To the high beech wood
It almost shines.
The beeches keep
A stormy rest,
Breathing deep
Of wind from the west.
The wood is black,
With a misty steam.
Above it the rack
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.
Source: Poems of Edward Thomas
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