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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506856" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mowing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506856" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">There was never a sound beside the wood but one,<br>And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.<br>What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;<br>Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,<br>Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound--<br>And that was why it whispered and did not speak.<br>It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,<br>Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:<br>Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak<br>To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,<br>Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers<br>(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.<br>The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.<br>My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Robert+Frost">Robert Frost</a></strong></div>

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