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Poem by Edward Thomas
There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag gots That once were underwood of hazel and ash In Jenny Pink's copse. Now, by the hedge Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next spring A blackbird or robin will nest there, Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain Whatever is for ever to a bird: This Spring it is too late; the swift has come. 'Twas a hot day for carrying them up: Better they will never warm me, though they must Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done The war will have ended, many other things Have ended, maybe, that I can no more Foresee or more control than robin and wren.
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