(To The Memory Of Edward Thomas)

A tall lean man he was, proud of his gun, Of his garden, and small fruit trees every one Knowing all weather signs, the flight of birds, Farther than I could hear the falling thirds Of the first cuckoo. Able at digging, he Smoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly. Full of old country tales his memory was; Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise saws In rough fine speech; sayings his father had, That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad. Handy with timber, nothing came amiss To his quick skill; and all the mysteries Of sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his. That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his stride Manner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride, I shall not forget, not yet his patience With me, unapt, though many a far league hence I’ll travel for many a year, nor ever find A winter-night companion more to my mind, Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river, Though her villages I search for ever and ever.