There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag gots <br />That once were underwood of hazel and ash <br />In Jenny Pink's copse. Now, by the hedge <br />Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone <br />Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next spring <br />A blackbird or robin will nest there, <br />Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain <br />Whatever is for ever to a bird: <br />This Spring it is too late; the swift has come. <br />'Twas a hot day for carrying them up: <br />Better they will never warm me, though they must <br />Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done <br />The war will have ended, many other things <br />Have ended, maybe, that I can no more <br />Foresee or more control than robin and wren.<br /><br />Edward Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fifty-faggots/
