I recently discovered Edward Thomas, a first world war poet, who
came to poetry late. This is almost the last poem he wrote before being killed in the trenches.
Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.
Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when the lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Then the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned.
And star and I and wind and deer,
Are in the dark together, -near,
Yet far - and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.
How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.