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