The old, ragged thatches that squat round their steeple, Are raised on their roof-poles, and fall with a clap, In the wind the old thatches and pent-houses flap, In the wind of November, so savage and hard.
"Poems of Emile Verhaeren"
Emile Verhaeren
For a garment of smoke lay over all and hid them: only the turmoil beat up as from a furnace, and the flames of burning thatches, and quick jets of firearms like lightning in a thundercloud.
"The Splendid Spur"
Arthur T. Quiller Couch
Great maples, heavy with leaves, stood out against the soft blue of the sky, and the sunlight poured over everything, bathing the stone walls, the thatches of the farmhouses, extracting from the copses of stunted pine a pungent, reviving perfume.
"The Dwelling Place of Light, Complete"
Winston Churchill Last Updated: March 5, 2009