The sickle sound, close to the ground,

Is soft. The hooked blade's bevel

Makes fail the grass, that eye may pass

On lawn at level.

That insistent goes 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.

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 lilac raising

New leaves too far.

Wet makes the grass grow. Sun, we think,

Drinks up the damp. What we

Then the hand-sickle against the fickle

Grass, and cut.