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Robert Frost - Mowing

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.

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Added: Feb 1 2004 | Viewed: 945 times | Comments and analysis of Mowing by Robert Frost Comments (59)

Mowing - Comments and Information

Poet: Robert Frost
Poem: 18. Mowing
Volume: A Boy's Will
Year: Published/Written in 1913
Poem of the Day: Apr 26 2012

Comment 59 of 59, added on July 17th, 2014 at 2:08 AM.

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Comment 58 of 59, added on July 17th, 2014 at 1:54 AM.

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Comment 57 of 59, added on April 20th, 2014 at 8:44 PM.

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