Mowing

Robert Frost 1874 (San Francisco) – 1963 (Boston)



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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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on April 26, 2023

39 sec read
165

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABCABDECDFEGFG
Closest metre Iambic hexameter
Characters 678
Words 132
Stanzas 1
Stanza Lengths 14

Robert Frost

Robert Lee Frost was an American poet. His work was initially published in England before it was published in America. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. more…

All Robert Frost poems | Robert Frost Books

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