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 Scythes are saying,
_Hush_, _and heed not_, _and fall asleep_;
_Hush_, they say to the grasses swaying,
_Hush_, they sing to the clover 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 clover, over the grass!