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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.
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