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 grass below ?
Scythes that swing in the grass and dover,
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 dover deep !
Hush—’tis the lullaby Time is singing —
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass.
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the dover, over the grass!
—Andrew Lang.
WHITE BUTTERFLIES
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
Frail pale wings for the wind to try,
Small white wings that we scarce can see,
Fly.
Some fly light as a laugh of glee,
Some fly soft as a low long sigh;
All to the haven where each would be,
Fly.
—Algernon Charles Swinburne.
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