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Poem by Andrew Lang

Scythe Song

MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,  
 What is the word methinks ye know,  
Endless over-word that the Scythe  
 Sings to the blades of the 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!  
Husht is 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! 

Andrew Lang

Andrew Lang's other poems:
  1. In Ithaca
  2. Les Roses de Sâdi
  3. Ballade of the Tweed
  4. Dizain
  5. Ballade of His Books

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