Today I want the sky,
The tops of the high hill,
Above the last man's house,
his hedges and his cows.
Where, if I will, I look
Down even on sheep and rook,
And of all things that move,
See buzzards only above.
Often and often it came back again
To mind, the day I passed the horizon ridge
To a new country, the path I had to find
By half-gaps that were stiles once in the hedge.
Catkins showing golden on a stand of hazel.
A hay wagon waiting for the arrival of cattle
from their winter quarters.
Clouds. . . . .
now scurrying close overhead,
wild ink-hued random racers that fling sheeted rain
gustily, and with garish boughs overarch the land:
Or, if the spirit of storm be abroad, huge molten glooms
mount on the horizon stealthily, and gathering as they climb
deep-freighted with live lightning, thunder and drenching flood
rebuff the winds and with black purpling terror impend
til they be driven away . . . . .
extracts of poems by Edward Thomas and Robert Bridges