There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound —
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
In a natural poem and fine art painting mashup, the “Mowing” by Robert Frost gives voice to ”The Veteran in a New Field” painting by Winslow Homer. I imagine Robert penning his thoughts into his lyrical poem after gazing at this painting – closing his eyes and hearing the whisper sound of the scythe as it made its back and forth rhythm across the hay – and we get a moment in time full of the imagery and voice of a quiet contemplation of man and his interactions with nature.