The rooks travelled home,
The milch cows went lowing,
And down in the meadow
An old man was mowing.
His shirt rank with sweat,
His neck stained with grime;
But he moved like the cadence
And sweetness of rhyme.
He moved like the heavy-winged
Rooks, the slow cows,
He moved like the vane
On the roof of the house.
The foam of the daisies
Was spread like a sea,
The spikes of red sorrel
Came up past his knee.
The sorrel, the daisies,
The white and the gold —
A man who was dirty
And twisted and old —
But again and again
Like an eddy he was.
He moved like the wind
In his own tasselled grass.
From: http://www.archive.org/stream/sylvialynd00lyndrich/sylvialynd00lyndrich_djvu.txt
Date: 1926
By: Sylvia Dryhurst Lynd
From Troubles of The World 