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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381202" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Fifty Faggots</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381202" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag gots<br>That once were underwood of hazel and ash<br>In Jenny Pink's copse. Now, by the hedge<br>Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone<br>Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next spring<br>A blackbird or robin will nest there,<br>Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain<br>Whatever is for ever to a bird:<br>This Spring it is too late; the swift has come.<br>'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:<br>Better they will never warm me, though they must<br>Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done<br>The war will have ended, many other things<br>Have ended, maybe, that I can no more<br>Foresee or more control than robin and wren.</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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