Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | August 1, 2009


by Robert Frost (1874 – 1963).


Mowing (1915)


There was never a sound beside the wood but one, 

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. 

What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; 

Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, 

Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—                                5

And that was why it whispered and did not speak. 

It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, 

Or easy cold at the hand of fay or elf: 

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak 

To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows—                            10

Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers 

(Pale orchises)—and scared a bright green snake. 

The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows. 

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.



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