There is a rumor hereabout of summer,

A long, green, and heavy heat,

By thunder sometimes broken asunder,

And rivers in the street.

But early in the season, with reason,

We began with weapons war

On weeds rising, on the lilacs raising

New leaves too far.

Wet makes the grass grow. Sun, we think,

Drinks up the damp. Whet we

Then the hand-sickle against the fickle

Grass, and cut.

The sickle sound, close to the ground,

Is soft. The hooked blade's bevel

Makes fall the grass, that eye may pass

On lawn at level.

That insistent goer, the charging mower,

Hauls back, and pants, and lunges

At tufts and patches. The wheel catches,

But the green changes

From jungle creeping up, to dingle,

To a dell. This clothesyard slope,

From under cover, with this going over,

Begins to take shape.