Archive for June 16th, 2012

Saturday, 16 June 2012

The Mower by Sylvia Dryhurst Lynd

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.


Date: 1926

By: Sylvia Dryhurst Lynd