Treasure Island

Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

Mowing


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.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • * Sunprincess * (10/30/2012 3:11:00 AM)

    wow a poet who is a hard worker as well..admirable quality..love this line..fabulous. :)

    The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows (Report) Reply

  • Ahmed Ali (4/9/2007 2:11:00 PM)

    Ostensibly, the speaker muses about the sound a scythe makes mowing hay in a field by a forest, and what this sound might signify. He rejects the idea that it speaks of something dreamlike or supernatural, concluding that reality of the work itself is rewarding enough, and the speaker need not call on fanciful invention. (Report) Reply

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