III
Soon may the whisp’ring blade Bow the grey grasses, Lo, the lush edge unfrayed Where the scythe passes! All with a stately speed Shorn and soft whistle Muted 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 hay Safe in the steading.