Mowing Songtext
von 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 know 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 archaises 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