It Was upon
IT was upon a July evening.At a stile I stood, looking along a pathOver the country by a second SpringDrenched perfect green again. "The lattermathWill 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 prophecyThe stranger's words, after the intervalOf a score years, when those fields are by meNever to be recrossed, now I recall,This July eve, and question, wondering,What of the lattermath to this hoar Spring?
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