| |
| FOUR sharp scythes sweeping—in concert keeping | |
| The rich-robed meadow’s broad bosom o’er, | |
| Four strong men mowing, with bright health glowing | |
| A long green swath spread each man before; | |
| With sinews springing—my keen blade swinging,— | 5 |
| I strode—the fourth man in that blithe band; | |
| As stalk of corn that summer morn, | |
| The scythe felt light in my stalwart hand. | |
| |
| Oh, King of Glory! How changed my story, | |
| Since in youth’s noontide—long, long ago, | 10 |
| I mowed that meadow—no cloudy shadow | |
| Between my brow and the hot sun’s glow; | |
| Fair girls raking the hay—and making | |
| The fields resound with their laugh and glee, | |
| Their voices ringing—than cuckoo’s singing, | 15 |
| Made music sweeter by far to me. | |
| |
| Bees hovered over the honied clover, | |
| Then nestward hied upon wings of light; | |
| No use in trying to trace them flying— | |
| One brief low hum and they’re out of sight, | 20 |
| On downy thistle bright insects nestle, | |
| Or flutter skyward on painted wings, | |
| At times alighting on flowers inviting— | |
| ’Twas pleasant watching the airy things. | |
| |
| From hazel bushes came songs of thrushes | 25 |
| And blackbirds—sweeter than harper’s lay; | |
| While high in ether—with sun-tipped feather— | |
| The skylark warbled his anthem gay; | |
| With throats distended, sweet linnets blended | |
| A thousand notes in one glorious chime, | 30 |
| Oh, King Eternal, ’twas life supernal | |
| In beauteous Erin, that pleasant time. | |
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