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By Edward Thomas

The sorrow of true love is a great sorrow


And true love parting blackens a bright morrow:


Yet almost they equal joys, since their despair


Is but hope blinded by its tears, and clear


Above the storm the heavens wait to be seen.


But greater sorrow from less love has been


That can mistake lack of despair for hope


And knows not tempest and the perfect scope


Of summer, but a frozen drizzle perpetual


Of drops that from remorse and pity fall


And cannot ever shine in the sun or thaw,


Removed eternally from the sun’s law.




  • Living
  • Love
  • Nature

Poet Bio

Edward Thomas
Born in London and educated at Oxford University, Edward Thomas worked long hours as a contract writer to support his young family. He struck up a friendship with a new neighbor, then-unknown poet Robert Frost, who persuaded Thomas to give poetry a try. Under the pseudonym Edward Eastaway, Thomas published the volume Six Poems (1916) and composed more than 100 other poems. He died in the Battle of Arras in World War I.

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