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 Scythe was 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!