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!  
Hush—’t 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! 

1. Ballade of the Tweed
2. Dizain
3. In Ithaca
4. Ballade of the Summer Term
5. Ballade of His Books

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