The Tuft of Flowers > ROBERT FROST

>
> I went to turn the grass once after one

> Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

> 
> The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
> Before I came to view the levelled scene.
> 
> I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
> I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
> 
> But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
> And I must be, as he had been,—alone,
> 
> ‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
> ‘Whether they work together or apart.’
> 
> But as I said it, swift there passed me by
> On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,
> 
> Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
> Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.
> 
> And once I marked his flight go round and round,
> As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
> 
> And then he flew as far as eye could see,
> And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
> 
> I thought of questions that have no reply,
> And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
> 
> But he turned first, and led my eye to look
> At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
> 
> A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
> Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
> 
> I left my place to know them by their name,
> Finding them butterfly weed when I came.
> 
> The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
> By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
> 
> Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
> But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
> 
> The butterfly and I had lit upon,
> Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
> 
> That made me hear the wakening birds around,
> And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
> 
> And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
>
> So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
> 
> But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
> And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
> 
> And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
> With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
> 
> ‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
> ‘Whether they work together or apart.’