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Updated: May 1, 2025
The crushing hail Of rocks and beams goes through the mass, Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass; They falter, they waver. A stalwart form Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm: 'Tis the Lion King! "How, now, ye knaves! Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!" One blow to the left, one blow to the right, Two recreants fall; no more of flight.
"From icy spears a drop will run Not fall: at afternoon, It shines a diamond for the sun, An opal for the moon. "And when the bright sad sun is low Behind the mountain-dome, A twilight wind will come, and blow All round the children's home; "And waft about the powdery snow, As night's dim footsteps pass; But waiting, in its grave below, Green lies the summer-grass."
You might as well ask him how to know the wild flowers as how to know the lawn pests dandelion, chickweed, summer-grass, heal-all, moneywort and the like with which you must reckon wearily by and by because he only mows them in his blindness and lets them flatten to the ground and scatter their seed like an infantry firing-line.
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