Thomas

=Edward Thomas=
 * March 3, 1878 - April 9, 1917**

Mid-30s during the war Writer of nature books and literary criticism before war Began writing poetry in questioning his own mental health Poet does not concern the trenches or doomed youth Wrote about observations of British life during war Killed by enemy shell
 * Recieved great criticism for this

On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks For washing me cleaner than I have been Since I was born into this solitude. Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: But here I pray that none whom once I loved Is dying tonight or lying still awake Solitary, listening to the rain, Either in pain or thus in sympathy Helpless among the living and the dead, Like a cold water among broken reeds, Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, Like me who have no love which this wild rain Has not dissolved except the love of death, If love it be for what is perfect and Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. ||
 * Rain**
 * Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain