After last week's, another July poem by Edward Thomas.

In this one, his relish in the natural world seems tempered by some sort of foreboding of mortality; he was killed at Arras in 1917.

IT WAS UPON A JULY EVENING

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?

lattermath=aftermath