Explore "Interval" by Edward Thomas on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Gone the wild day:
A wilder night Coming makes way For brief twilight.
Where the firm soaked road Mounts and is lost In the high beech-wood It shines almost.
The beeches keep A stormy rest, Breathing deep Of wind from the west.
The wood is black, With a misty steam.
Above, the cloud pack 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.