poet with complex and subtle moods. Thomas in this thin volume ranges from mere impressionism to creation as exquisite as this:
"The clouds that are so light,
Beautiful, swift and bright,
Cast shadows on field and park
Of the earth that is so dark,
And even so now, light one!
Beautiful, swift and bright one!
You let fall on a heart that was dark,
Unillumined, a deeper mark.
But clouds would have, without earth
To shadow, far less worth:
Away from your shadow on me
Your beauty less would be,
And if it still be treasured
An age hence, it shall be measured
By this small dark spot
Without which it were not."
A really finished and lovely poem, which will improve with long pondering and often repeating. This man had fought for his own freedom and won against considerable odds before he went out to fight for ours. Through his art, as under limpid water, one sees the opinionated savage youngster whom he first was, lying drowned, exclusive in his love of Celtic magic and deep-country ancientness, despising many fine things because he associated them with towns and globe-trotters; but the real man's soul with its depth and stillness has charmed all that turbulence, so that it now lies like a picture of itself under glass. Not born free, but self-freed like a plant that lifts a stone, or a sapling that splits a rock before it can show the world its proper beauty, and, for us discovered, like that hooded wayfarer at the supper-table only recognised
