The Word
Edward Thomas 1878 (London Borough of Lambeth) – 1917 (Pas-de-Calais)
There are so many things I have forgot,
That once were much to me, or that were not,
All lost, as is a childless woman's child
And its child's children, in the undefiled
Abyss of what can never be again.
I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men
That fought and lost or won in the old wars,
Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.
Some things I have forgot that I forget.
But lesser things there are, remembered yet,
Than all the others. One name that I have not --
Though 'tis an empty thingless name -- forgot
Never can die because Spring after Spring
Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing.
There is always one at midday saying it clear
And tart -- the name, only the name I hear.
While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent
That is like food, or while I am content
With the wild rose scent that is like memory,
This name suddenly is cried out to me
From somewhere in the bushes by a bird
Over and over again, a pure thrush word.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 58 sec read
- 78 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AABACCDEFFAAGGHIJJKKLL |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 962 |
Words | 192 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 22 |
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"The Word" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 1 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/9905/the-word>.
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