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 labour knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Added: on May 28th, 2006 at 6:11 AM | Viewed: 14297 times | Comments (6)

Poet: Robert Frost (Robert Frost Art)
Poem: 18. Mowing
Volume: A Boy's Will
Year: Published/Written in 1913

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Mowing, has received 6 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Robert Frost with others on the American Poems poetry forum!