Robert Frost
Jun. 23rd, 2004 11:24 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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greatpoetry"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 fey or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid in 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.
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 fey or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid in 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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no subject
Date: 2004-06-24 07:24 am (UTC)wonderful classic poet...
another great share...
thank you...
no subject
Date: 2004-06-24 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-24 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-25 04:45 pm (UTC)