was never a sound beside the wood but one,
that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
it was something about the heat of the sun,
perhaps, about the lack of sound—
that was why it whispered and did not speak.
was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
more than the truth would have seemed too weak
the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.