The Tuft Of Flowers

The Tuft of Flowers by 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 leveled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees, I listened for his wet stone 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 I 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 and 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.