Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done, And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLUE AND THE GRAY by FRANCIS MILES FINCH RICHARD CORY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON MAGDALEN by GEORGE KENYON ASHENDON PSALM 23 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK by JAMES W. BLAKE NOVEMBER by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |