Not a particularly stormy picture, to go with this poem, but I don't think I have any stormy ones. It is probably somewhere near Brecon, on the way to Malvern, as it's with the rest of that set of photos.
The poem probably should go on my Edward Thomas blog, as it's poetry, but what the heck. Enjoy it anyway:
SHE HEARS THE STORM
There was a time in former years -
While my roof-tree was his -
When I should have been distressed by fears
At such a night as this!
I should have murmured anxiously,
"The pricking rain strikes cold;
His road is bare of hedge or tree,
And he is getting old."
But now the fitful chimney-roar,
The drone of Thorncombe trees,
The Froom in flood upon the moor,
The mud of Mellstock Leaze,
The candles slanting sooty-wick'd,
The thuds upon the thatch,
The eaves-drops on the window flicked,
The clacking garden-latch,
And what they mean to wayfarers,
I scarcely heed or mind;
He has won that storm-tight roof of hers
Which Earth grants all her kind.
That conjours up such an image. I always think his poetry was greatly underrated.
ReplyDeleteYou have inspired me to explore some more of Hardy's poetry. Thank you! Jx
ReplyDeleteI love Thomas Hardy and it's lovely to read selected poems of his like this, many thanks.
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