Letter from Edward Thomas to his wife, Helen Thomas. Archival reference: 424/1/1/1/1/68
17 Woodville Street
24.viii.98
approached the castle. The climb must have
given me years of life, or made the
years shall live more intense than before!
To feel the keen sweet air pumped in and out rapidly! To be a new healthy
flower under the puisance of the
winds! Every breath was fully all
the potent odours of flowers and new things; it was magical also with
delicious poisons - from purple flowers. My
thoughts in the castle and it its presence
were tumultuous, and upset partly by
my funny terror at the steep rock
and the time altering ruins. I was awed
by the vigour and perseverance an
age that could produce such work ; by
the cruelty of time and of succeeding
generations of men. My own littleness was
never so clear ; I seemed less than the
pebbles which we sent spinning over the

26.viii.98 17 Woodville St.
My dearest friend,
I have kept you waiting sadly!
But the truth is - I have again been away
from Pontardulais [sic] , with no opportunity for
writing. Early on Tuesday I went of to
Amanford [sic], to the bard, Watcyn [sic] Wyn; only late tonight, Wednesday I returned, too
late to post until 11.30 tomorrow arriving.
Again I have an entirely delightful time,
still longer than last week, though rather
less varied; for one thing, we had
no singing, unless you count a
few verses of "Y ferch o Llandebie"
"the first of Llandebie", which contains the line, "Tra bo'r clochdy yn y pentre",
which I spelt wrongly before. Another
wrong spelling - De Never should be
Dynevor ; it is a real Welsh name,
and the family, now represented by
a filthy young lord, is older than
the Conquest.
Since I wrote on Sunday, I have
Note from transcriber:
Written diagonally across the top right corner is the following:
Send as soon as you can all but
what is necessary to you of this months [illegible]
Remember.

Two letter from you, sweet. How I rejoiced, how it seemed to put a glorious wreath of flowers upon the lovely statue of my pleasure! - when I found your happy letter here, lying for me since this morning ; it cleared away the light clouds which the troublesome child threw everyone. I can enjoy your (illegible) joy in the thought of me ; I can praise it , and rejoice over it; even though I myself incapable of such elation, Such perfect conquest of the flesh by the spirit. Even now the air fills with the downy that dainty grass you sent me in the letter! But I know nothing of grasses The "red" flower is wood betony ; the yellow is too dry to be recognised but is possibly thryncia, or hairlbit, a relative of the dandelion - I will put them in the treasury along with my flowers and leaves from the beloved
abyss; my value and beauty seemed incompatible to that of the harebell which I picked from the ruined walls. They were not melancholy thoughts ; yet too stormy and strange to leave me laughing joy ; - though I laughed long and happily all day. I wish I could sing my feelings
"I cannot bear the sworded scabbard or wield the bow or spear"
I tried to think how I could do my duty as the flower did, as the builders of this castle did. But I came to no conclusion. My duty is not difficult to see; to perform it is hard, for one who cannot quite give up the thoughts of other things. Yet it would be sweet to think that my life might one day leave a monument as perfect as the wee seed the harebell, or as the great walls of the castle.
Much remains of this castle, but it is almost tottering ; the elder tree is in its walls, the grass in its floors, I had to
stoop to pass under the doorways, perhaps because
the (illegible) that day were shorter, perhaps because of changes of soil; probably both.
These men had minds very much different to ours. It was
actually an effort to keep alive, or they would never have built such hideous cheerless homes. How cruel they were!
Under the castle is a long tunnel in the solid stone of the cliff, which we followed to where it is stopped up by stones; though once it is supposed to have led to a secret chamber - oh! horrible - or perhaps - to a friendly fortress some furlongs away, underground ; in this way many castles could communicate with one another in times of Siege. By the way all along the coast, each castle has another in sight ; so that a beacon lit in one could be seen by another and so passed on and on over miles of country. The idea of men threading such a tunnel as we saw is ghastly. They could do it for no humane purpose ;

broad hat and with a long stride, a book in my hand. my
buttonhole fully faded blossoms and leaves, - Cypress from
Llaudebic (sic) (illegible) (illegible) and musk mallow, Scabious , and (?) wild marjoram from the hills . No, this
cypress was from the church near a sacred well we passed
yesterday, not today ; Gwili gave it me. I had a large ?knot
of nuts there too, but they have fallen our in walking ;
(I must be a curious sight). for the nuts are full now
and eatable but not quite ripe and brown. The
sheepdogs barked at me by every farm. The solitary
men looked at me from among the sheaves of corn, from
a waggon top. I noticed how a leaf stirred now and then
in the great twilight silence, just as children will fidget in
a cathedral hush.

left hand image

longed to see it, but was too
cowardly to try.
We returned late through
a dark night of stars, I
looking many times to the east
as we went. It was past 10
when we returned. after a
comfortable meal in a warm,
large kitchen, with a fire which
is always burning in Wales,
went to bed and dreamt - of
nothing. In the morning I
walked far, through Llandebie,
up and down one of the hazel lanes,
to a hill called the Dinas,
and back through a village called
Pentre Gwenlais [the village of
the river with the soft voice],
consisting of a dozen neat white
houses with thatched roofs all

right hand image

this is country described in the
Maginogion. One of the loveliest
stories mentions
Llinllechwel, which I
told you of on Sunday.
In the afternoon I smoked
indoors, and at 6.30 started
to walk back here. I went
very quickly indeed over the
steep country, stopping only
to make notes of a rubbishy
episode which happened to
occur to my mind at the time.
Night was getting strong as I
neared home; it was past 8 when
sat down here. - Now it is
midnight, and I write alone
in the quiet house - the
children stared after me as
I passed their cottage in my

terrible", did you mean you actually
dreamt it? Tell me. You do
not answer my voluptuous words,
perhaps it is well.
Is the dawn happy to you always?
has this one been (Friday)
on which you read this letter? - Tell
me again of your joy. Of what you
see during it, of your limbs and
hair; tell me it all; for all
of you is mine and beloved. But I
grow too desirous in picturing
your white breasts under your dark
hair in the dim gold dawn, with
a bed of roses near. Let us kiss
so, and whether we do more
your life shall decide. Goodbye. In life
I am your truest fondest friend Edwin
and you ever my own sweet little one,
Helen, Anemone Nemorosa.
Sweetheart, goodbye. I think
you are well, all is well. Adieu.

At night I did not see the Pleiades
low in the east. (You spell them
right).
Now let me go to my bed
I wish it were yours too, or that I
could dream of you, but neither is
possible. Good night Helen, sweet
heart. Helen fach (fach is vocative
of bach) Good night. I hope you
sleep in peace, or dreaming only of
me. Goodnight.

Mother goes on Saturday with
all that are letting us; but I
dont know what will be her
address.
We return today fortnight,
perhaps a day earlier. And when
do you return?
Monday morning.
I had a cheque for 2/6/ from the Speaker for Summer this
morning of which father gives me
14/- only; as to "Wayside Pleasure"
I don't know if it has appeared or
not; Arthur does not write, nor
do you mention it, Of course I shall bank this.
Yesterday I bought a
copy of "Can a Thelyn", Song and
Harp, the book of writings of Wyn’s that contains the Songs I like;
you can also find the music of it
here. So I shall ask you to
play the tunes for your own
amusement and mine.

What a picture - if only I could
believe and keep it - what a picture
of your yourself you give me, sitting in
"the white dawn clear" with the
marble of your breast full of light
as the clouds are full; your hair
falling; your limbs bare and
white; your eyes dark and bright
and passionate. If only I could
catch you so! Should I merely kiss
your brow or hand? or should I
bear you to some place and there kiss
you to sleep, lying upon your
breast and limbs? Which? But
either would be perfect. Oh! do
not fear the waking after such a
sleep; it never can give a pang
save to the foul and voluptuous. Or
when yo said "only the waking is