A Mowing Devil…

03._Crane__The_Mower-compressor

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 know not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something perhaps, about the lack of sound— 5
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was not 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, 10
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.

by Robert Frost 

tthe Mowing Devil

A Mowing Devil? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mowing-Devil

Published by The Delightful Mrs P

Witch, Writer, Card Slinger, Chocolate Lover, Tea Drinker, Cake Eater & Mystic. A Northern Lass, a Walker between and betwixt. I'll talk to Anyone, dead or alive.

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