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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Bob's Lane</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,<br>Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he<br>Loved horses. He himself was like a cob<br>And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">For the life in them he loved most living things,<br>But a tree chiefly. All along the lane<br>He planted elms where now the stormcock sings<br>That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Till then the track had never had a name<br>For all its thicket and the nightingales<br>That should have earned it. No one was to blame<br>To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now<br>None passes there because the mist and the rain<br>Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough<br>And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edward+Thomas">Edward Thomas</a></strong></div>

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