poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

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.


Submitted by Stephen Fryer

Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 17 Oct 2026 9:44 PM | Viewed: 13658 times

A PoetryNotes™ Analysis of Reapers by Jean Toomer, is Available!

A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours.

ON SALE - only $29.95 19.95!

For more information...