Edward Thomas, who was killed on the battlefields of the First World War when he was a 39-year-old father of three, has long been overshadowed by other war poets, but his Wordsworthian appreciation of nature and favouring of "common speech" have increasingly found favour.
Here, Matthew Hollis introduces us to some sublime poems, and also some very moving prose. Thomas's short piece on love poetry contains a line as beautiful as any poem: "Love opens the door, but it does not know what is within, whether it be treasure, nothingness or devils." A strain of melancholy permeates poems such as "March", a reflection of the depression with which he struggled for all of his short life.
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