THE HOLLOW WOOD

By Edward Thomas

OUT in the sun the goldfinch flits

Along the thistle-tops, flits and twits

Above the hollow wood

Where birds swim like fish —

Fish that laugh and shriek —

To and fro, far below

In the pale hollow wood.

Lichen, ivy, and moss

Keep evergreen the trees

That stand half-flayed and dying,

And the dead trees on their knees

In dog's-mercury and moss:

And the bright twit of the goldfinch drops

Down there as he flits on thistle-tops.