Mowing

The Mower by Georges Seurat

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Mowing, by Robert Frost

Bears

Spirit Bear by  conwest_john on Flickr.

Spirit Bear by conwest_john on Flickr.

 

Bears are divided into brown and white, also paws, head and trunk. They have nice snouts and small eyes. They like greediness very much. They don’t want to go to school, but sleeping in the forest — that, yes, very much. When they don’t have any honey, they clutch their heads in their hands and are so sad, so sad, that I don’t know. Children who love Winnie-the-Pooh would give them anything, but a hunter walks in the forest and aims with his rifle between that pair of small eyes.

Bears, from Zbigniew Herbert’s Elegy for the Departure.

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