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Read more poems by Robert Frost: Robert Frost Poems at Poetry X.

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Mowing

Robert Frost

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.

Added: 31 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 16 Jan 2018 6:16 PM | Viewed: 11361 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/716/ | Viewed on 16 January 2018.
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