There are four men mowing down by the Isar; <br /> I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four <br /> Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I <br /> Am sorry for what's in store. <br /> <br /> The first man out of the four that's mowing <br /> Is mine, I claim him once and for all; <br /> Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing <br /> None of the trouble he's led to stall. <br /> <br /> As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts <br /> His head as proud as a deer that looks <br /> Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes <br /> His scythe-blade bright, unhooks <br /> <br /> The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me. <br /> Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, <br /> Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, <br /> Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-youth-mowing-2/
