Mowing
de Robert Frost(2005)
1 min lectură
Mediu
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.
Despre aceasta lucrare
- Autor
- Robert Frost
- Tip
- Poezie
- An
- 2005
- Cuvinte
- 130
- Citire
- 1 min
- Versuri
- 14
- Actualizat
Cum sa citezi
Robert Frost. “Mowing.” Clasici, Poezie.ro, https://poezie.ro/clasici/robert-frost/poezie/mowingIntrebari frecvente
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