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.