I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been—alone, “As all must be,” I said within my heart, “Whether they work together or apart.”
But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook. A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. The mower in the dew had loved them thus, By leaving them to flourish, not for us.
The butterfly and I had lit upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone[.]
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. “Men work together,” I told him from the heart, “Whether they work together or apart.”
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