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Today seems like a good day for a poem. To my mind every day is a good day for a poem, but I thought I would share an Edward Thomas poem with you to whet your appetite for when I finish the collection. This one was written in 1915, a very prolific year for Thomas.

There’s nothing like the sun

There’s nothing like the sun as the year dies,
Kind as it can be, this world being made so,
The stones and men and beasts and birds and flies,
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountain side or street of town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot
That there is nothing, too, like March’s sun,
Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s, or May’s,
Or January’s, or February’s, great days:
And August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said —
Or, if I could live long enough, should say —
‘There’s nothing like the sun that shines today.’
There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead.

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