There's a place called Far-away meadow We never shall mow in again,
Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:
Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:
The meadow is finished with men.
Then now is the chance for the flowers
That can't stand mowers and plowers.
It must be now, through, in season
Before the not mowing brings trees on,
Before trees, seeing the opening,
March into a shadowy claim.
The trees are all I'm afraid of,
That flowers can't bloom in the shade of;
It's no more men I'm afraid of;
The meadow is done with the tame.
The place for the moment is ours
For you, oh tumutuous flowers,
To go to waste and go wild in,
All shaps and colors of flowers,
I needn't call you by name.
The Last Mowing
By Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
Pull through Katie. Pull through.
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