There's a place called Far-away Meadow <br />We never shall mow in again, <br />Or such is the talk at the farmhouse: <br />The meadow is finished with men. <br />Then now is the chance for the flowers <br />That can't stand mowers and plowers. <br />It must be now, through, in season <br />Before the not mowing brings trees on, <br />Before trees, seeing the opening, <br />March into a shadowy claim. <br />The trees are all I'm afraid of, <br />That flowers can't bloom in the shade of; <br />It's no more men I'm afraid of; <br />The meadow is done with the tame. <br />The place for the moment is ours <br />For you, oh tumultuous flowers, <br />To go to waste and go wild in, <br />All shapes and colors of flowers, <br />I needn't call you by name.<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-mowing-the/
