Edward Thomas's benign rural scene is sketched with his usual pared-down eloquence.

The poem dates to 1915, in the summer of which he enlisted in the Artists' Rifles. He would be killed two years later at Arras.

SOWING

It was a perfect day

For sowing; just

As sweet and dry was the ground

As tobacco-dust.

I tasted deep the hour

Between the far

Owl's chuckling first soft cry

And the first star.

A long stretched hour it was;

Nothing undone

Remained; the early seeds

All safely sown.

And now, hark at the rain,

Windless and light,

Half a kiss, half a tear,

Saying good-night.