Mowing

By Robert Frost 1874–1963 Robert Frost
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.

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Poet Robert Frost 1874–1963

POET’S REGION U.S., New England

Subjects Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers

 Robert  Frost

Biography

Robert Frost holds a unique and almost isolated position in American letters. “Though his career fully spans the modern period and though it is impossible to speak of him as anything other than a modern poet,” writes James M. Cox, “it is difficult to place him in the main tradition of modern poetry.” In a sense, Frost stands at the crossroads of 19th-century American poetry and modernism, for in his verse may be found the . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers

POET’S REGION U.S., New England

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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