I
Scarce hath the crookèd scythe
Duly been whetted
When all the mowers blithe
(By the storm letted,
Crouching the shed beneath
At the field’s margent)
See the first fallen swathe
Pelted with argent.
White mist the valley blurs,
White the horizon,
Since the cloud skirmishers
Sent their first spies on.
Haste away,
Waters grey,
Spare of your shedding,
Till we bestow our hay
Safe in the steading.