There's Nothing Like the Sun
THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN by EDWARD THOMAS
There's nothing like the sun as the year dies, Kind as it can be, this world being made so, To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, To all things that it touches except snow, Whether on mountains side or street of town. The south wall warms me: November has begun, Yet never shone the sun as fair as now While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough With spangles of the morning's storm drop down Because the starling shakes it, whistling what Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot That there is nothing, too, like March's sun, Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's, Or January's, or February's, great days: August, September, October, and December Have equal days, all different from November. No day of any month but I have said--- Or, if I could live long enough, should say--- 'There's nothing like the sun that shines today.' There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.
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|Author||Thomas, Edward (1878-1917)|
|Title||There's Nothing Like the Sun|
|Copyright||Copyright Edward Thomas, 1979, reproduced under licence from Faber and Faber Ltd.|
|First line||There's nothing like the sun as the year dies,|
|Publication source||Edward Thomas Collected Poems|
|Publication editor||Thomas, George|
|Publishers||Faber and Faber|
|Digital repository||The First World War Poetry Digital Archive|