 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
239
THE MOWER
Whet thy scythe, mower,
Though thy hand swing slow,
The sun falls lower,
And the shadows grow.
Though thy hand swing slow,
The sun falls lower,
And the shadows grow.
How the white blade flashes
In the steady sun!
All the dinted slashes
Tell the death of one.
In the steady sun!
All the dinted slashes
Tell the death of one.
Field-flower and clover,
Sword-grass seeded high,
Summer dreams are over,
Side by side they lie.
Sword-grass seeded high,
Summer dreams are over,
Side by side they lie.
Winds above them lying
Stir with fragrant feet;
Who would shrink from dying
If death smelt so sweet?
Stir with fragrant feet;
Who would shrink from dying
If death smelt so sweet?
From the sturdy shoulder
Let the scythe be swung;
Soon the blade shall moulder
In the granary hung.
Let the scythe be swung;
Soon the blade shall moulder
In the granary hung.
240
Iron steeds of battle
Snort o'er humming farms:
Hear them clink and rattle,
Lifting solemn arms!
Snort o'er humming farms:
Hear them clink and rattle,
Lifting solemn arms!
Whet thy scythe bolder,
Evening comes apace:
One with scythe on shoulder
Runs a rival race.
Evening comes apace:
One with scythe on shoulder
Runs a rival race.
Through the whispering grasses
Let the bright blade ring;
Ere the good time passes,
Mower, stride and swing.
Let the bright blade ring;
Ere the good time passes,
Mower, stride and swing.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |