There was never a sound beside the wood but one, <br />And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. <br />What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; <br />Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, <br />Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound-- <br />And that was why it whispered and did not speak. <br />It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, <br />Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: <br />Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak <br />To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, <br />Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers <br />(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake. <br />The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows. <br />My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mowing/
