Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done, And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE TO WISDOM by ELIZABETH CARTER GREEN SYMPHONY by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE by PHILIP FRENEAU CHURCH-MUSICK [CHURCH MUSIC] by GEORGE HERBERT TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW by ROBERT HERRICK AT THE WEDDING MARCH by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE STORM by ANNA A. ARMBRUSTER |