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 labour knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.