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Mowers, weary and brown and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of grass below? Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Something still they say as they pass; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, Hush, they sing to the clover deep! Hush—'tis the lullaby Time is singing— Hush, and heed not, for all things pass. Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the grass! |