Mowing

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 labour knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

by Robert Frost

Comments (8)

'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, ' so much missed by not hearing the long scythe whispering, will have to pay more attention to contemporary sounds
What a heaven-sent poet! After plowing my way through lesser poets, I have gotten my reward. Robert Frost who can take any common chore of man and turn it into an homage.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows. My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make....Wonderful writing
One speaks when one whispers. But it's so private none others know the sound.
The heat of the sun with the muse of life. Nice work.
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