Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MOWING, by ROBERT FROST



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MOWING, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: There was never a sound beside the wood but one
Last Line: My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
Subject(s): Environment; Fields; Mowing & Mowers; Environmental Protection; Ecology; Conservation; Pastures; Meadows; Leas; Lawn Mowers


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.






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