Fields starred over with daisies,
The grazing of his whetstone
Across the long crescent blade;
The easy, measured rhythm
Of his swing as the grass fell;
Air fragrant with the scent
of new-mown hay;
The sweet tremolo of a
Melancholy tune he whistled;
The mild warmth of June sun
In an azure blue sky,
Not clear, but holding o high;
Great milk-white cumulus clouds
Sailing like ancient galleons,
Their dark shadows fast moving
Over the land where he mowed.
~ Dorothy Taggart
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