Today I think

Only with scents, -scents dead leaves yield,

And bracken, and wild carrot’s seed,

And the square mustard field;


Odours that rise

When the spade wounds the root of tree

Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,

Rhubarb or celery;


The smoke’s smell,  too,

Flowing from where the bonfire burns

The dead, the waste, the dangerous

And all to sweetness turns.


It is enough

To smell,  to crumble the dark earth,

While the robin sings over again

Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

Edward Thomas.


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