There’s a place called Far-away Meadow
We never shall mow in again,
Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:
The meadow is finished with men.
Then now is the chance for the flowers
That can’t stand mowers and plowers.
It must be now, through, in season
Before the not mowing brings trees on,
Before trees, seeing the opening,
March into a shadowy claim.
The trees are all I’m afraid of,
That flowers can’t bloom in the shade of;
It’s no more men I’m afraid of;
The meadow is done with the tame.
The place for the moment is ours
For you, oh tumultuous flowers,
To go to waste and go wild in,
All shapes and colors of flowers,
I needn’t call you by name.

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1 Comment

  1. Rajesh Venkatesan says:

    Flowers cannot withstand mowing and plowing, and will not bloom in shades. The poet dislikes those wild, waste flowers which bloom in the far-away meadow. The poet doesn’t want to call even those flowers by names. He wants an order in everything.

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