SOUVENIR OF MICHAEL DRAYTON
Scarce hath the crookèd scytheDuly been whettedWhen all the mowers blithe(By the storm letted,Crouching the shed beneathAt the field’s margent)See the first fallen swathePelted with argent.White mist the valley blurs,White the horizon,Since the cloud skirmishersSent their first spies on.Haste away,Waters grey,Spare of your shedding,Till we bestow our haySafe in the steading.
Scarce hath the crookèd scytheDuly been whettedWhen all the mowers blithe(By the storm letted,Crouching the shed beneathAt the field’s margent)See the first fallen swathePelted with argent.White mist the valley blurs,White the horizon,Since the cloud skirmishersSent their first spies on.Haste away,Waters grey,Spare of your shedding,Till we bestow our haySafe in the steading.
Scarce hath the crookèd scytheDuly been whettedWhen all the mowers blithe(By the storm letted,Crouching the shed beneathAt the field’s margent)See the first fallen swathePelted with argent.White mist the valley blurs,White the horizon,Since the cloud skirmishersSent their first spies on.Haste away,Waters grey,Spare of your shedding,Till we bestow our haySafe in the steading.