THE NIGHT-MOWER.
In the soft dew-fall of an autumn night
A solitary mower marks his way
With hissing scythe in the brine-savored hay
Long ere the dawn is flooding into light.
From restless doubting now unveils my sight;
I shame to hear the certain swing and play
Of the strong toiler's arm whose night is day,
Treading the hours through in faithful might.
Ever he glides with form invisible;
His ringing scythe oft filling the dark plain.
The moving murmur of the coming tide
Stirs the broad night, now full and palpable;
For wholesome pride and faith are mine again
Near the night-mower by the river-side.
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