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Poem by Edward Thomas
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It was upon a July evening. At a stile I stood, looking along a path Over the country by a second Spring Drenched perfect green again. 'The lattermath Will be a fine one.' So the stranger said, A wandering man. Albeit I stood at rest, Flushed with desire I was. The earth outspread, Like meadows of the future, I possessed. And as an unaccomplished prophecy The stranger's words, after the interval Of a score years, when those fields are by me Never to be recrossed, now I recall, This July eve, and question, wondering, What of the lattermath to this hoar Spring?
Edward Thomas's other poems:
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