Mowing
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Lyrics
There was never a sound beside the wood but one And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground What was it, it whispered? I know not well myself Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound And that was why it whispered and did not speak It was no dream of the gift of idle hours Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak To the earnest love that laid the Swale in rows Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers Pale archaises and scared a bright green snake The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make
Audio Features
Song Details
- Duration
- 00:57
- Key
- 5
- Tempo
- 80 BPM