There are four men mowing down by the Isar; 
I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four 
Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I 
Am sorry for what's in store. 

The first man out of the four that's mowing 
Is mine, I claim him once and for all; 
Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing 
None of the trouble he's led to stall. 

As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts 
His head as proud as a deer that looks 
Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes 
His scythe-blade bright, unhooks 

The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me. 
Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, 
Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, 
Yea, though I'm sorry for thee. 

Added: Mar 18 2005 | Viewed: 600 times | Comments (0)

Poet: D.H. Lawrence
Poem: A Youth Mowing

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