|There was never a sound beside the wood but one,|
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
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,
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.
fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.