A YOUTH MOWING

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.