Like yesterday’s poem by Robert Frost, this one by his friend Edward Thomas dates from 1916.

The elegiac piece by the Englishman buries one of the harshest lines imaginable about the First World War in the midst of its reflection on a deserted house and garden. 

BLENHEIM ORANGES

Gone, gone again,
May, June, July,
And August gone,
Again gone by.

Not memorable
Save that I saw them go,
As past the empty quays
The rivers flow.

And now again,
In the harvest rain,
The Blenheim oranges
Fall grubby from the trees,

As when I was young – 
And when the lost one was here -
And when the war began 
To turn young men to dung.

Look at the old house, 
Outmoded, dignified,
Dark and untenanted,
With grass growing instead

Of the footsteps of life,
The friendliness, the strife;
In its beds have lain
Youth, love, age and pain:

I am something like that;
Only I am not dead,
Still breathing and interested
In the house that is not dark: -

I am something like that:
Not one pane to reflect the sun,
For the schoolboys to throw at – 
They have broken every one.