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?
It was not 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 . . .
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows. My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.