Flower Pieces and other poems By William Allingham: With two designs by Dante Gabriel Rossetti |
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| VIII. |
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| XII. |
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THE MOWERS. |
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 | Flower Pieces and other poems |  |
THE MOWERS.
Where mountains round a lonely dale
Our cottage-roof enclose,
Come night or morn, the hissing pail
With fragrant cream o'erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither,—
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.
Our cottage-roof enclose,
Come night or morn, the hissing pail
With fragrant cream o'erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither,—
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.
The fog drawn up the mountain-side
And scatter'd flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;
Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather,—
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
And scatter'd flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;
Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather,—
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
The goodwife stirs at five, we know,
The master soon comes round,
And many swaths must lie a-row
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound;
Sweet vernal-grass, and foxtail deep,
The spike or silvery feather,—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow them down together.
The master soon comes round,
And many swaths must lie a-row
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound;
Sweet vernal-grass, and foxtail deep,
The spike or silvery feather,—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow them down together.
58
The noon-tide brings its welcome rest
Our toil-wet brows to dry;
Anew with merry stave and jest
The shrieking hone we ply.
White falls the brook from steep to steep
Among the rocks and heather,—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
Our toil-wet brows to dry;
Anew with merry stave and jest
The shrieking hone we ply.
White falls the brook from steep to steep
Among the rocks and heather,—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
For dial, see, our shadows turn;
Low lies the stately mead:
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn—
All flesh is grass, we read.
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep,
To Heav'n we leave it whether:
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We've done our task together.
Low lies the stately mead:
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn—
All flesh is grass, we read.
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep,
To Heav'n we leave it whether:
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We've done our task together.
| Flower Pieces and other poems | |