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...HER EYES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON NIGHT IN ARIZONA by SARA TEASDALE CAVALIER TUNES: GIVE A ROUSE THEN FOR THE CLINIC by ROBERT BROWNING CANZONET: TO HIS COY LOVE by MICHAEL DRAYTON THE SWAMP ANGEL by HERMAN MELVILLE THE MOTHER by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE TO A YOUNG LADY; WHO ... REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN COUNTRY by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |