III
Soon may the whisp’ring bladeBow the grey grasses,Lo, the lush edge unfrayedWhere the scythe passes!All with a stately speedShorn and soft whistleMuted on nought of weed,Burdock nor thistle.—Grace hath possessed the sky,Hope hath o’er-spanned it,Parteth he hurriedly,Storm, the black bandit.Haste away,Waters grey,Spare of your shedding,Till we bestow our haySafe in the steading.
Soon may the whisp’ring bladeBow the grey grasses,Lo, the lush edge unfrayedWhere the scythe passes!All with a stately speedShorn and soft whistleMuted on nought of weed,Burdock nor thistle.—Grace hath possessed the sky,Hope hath o’er-spanned it,Parteth he hurriedly,Storm, the black bandit.Haste away,Waters grey,Spare of your shedding,Till we bestow our haySafe in the steading.
Soon may the whisp’ring bladeBow the grey grasses,Lo, the lush edge unfrayedWhere the scythe passes!All with a stately speedShorn and soft whistleMuted on nought of weed,Burdock nor thistle.—Grace hath possessed the sky,Hope hath o’er-spanned it,Parteth he hurriedly,Storm, the black bandit.Haste away,Waters grey,Spare of your shedding,Till we bestow our haySafe in the steading.