RS, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the grass below? Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying; Hush, they sing to the clover deep! Hush—’t is the lullaby Time is singing— Hush, and heed not, for all things pass; Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the grass!
