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 -- And that was why it whispered and did not speak. It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, Or easy gold 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, 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEFORE MARCHING, AND AFTER (IN MEMORIAM F.W.G.) by THOMAS HARDY A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 13 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE NEW EZEKIEL by EMMA LAZARUS SUMMER (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |