Explore "Mowing" by Robert Frost on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.