Paraphrasing:
Poem: Mowing
There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
Difficult words:
Scythe: A long tool with a curved blade used for cutting grass or crops
Whispering: Speaking softly, here it’s used metaphorically for the sound it makes
Fay or elf: Fairy-like magical beings (from folk tales)
Swale: A low, grassy area or hollow in the land
Feeble-pointed: Weak or small-pointed
Orchises: A type of wild orchid (flower)
Earnest: Serious and sincere
Idle hours: Free time without any work
Labor: Hard work
Paraphrasing:
There was no other sound in the forest except one
It was the soft, whispering noise made by my long scythe cutting the grass close to the
ground.
I wasn’t completely sure what it was trying to say.
Maybe it had something to do with the hot sunlight,
Or perhaps it was the peaceful quiet all around
And maybe that’s why the sound was like a whisper, not actual speech.
It wasn’t a dream or imagination of magical rewards for doing nothing,
Or gold given by fairies or elves from fairy tales.
Any false or fancy ideas would not have matched the real and honest love
That pushed me to cut the grass into neat rows across the field.
As I worked, I noticed a few delicate flowers (pale orchises)
And even frightened away a green snake hiding in the grass.
In the end, the reality of work felt better than any dream
The truth of working hard gave the sweetest satisfaction.
My scythe whispered again as I left the field, with the hay ready to be collected.
Poem: “The Eagle” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Difficult Words:
Clasp Hold tightly or grip
Crag A steep or rugged rock face or cliff
Crooked Not straight; bent or twisted
Azure Bright blue color (like the sky)
Wrinkled With small folds or ridges (like waves on the sea)
Crawls Moves slowly
Mountain walls The rocky sides or edges of the mountain
Thunderbolt A flash of lightning, sudden and powerful
Paraphrasing:
The eagle grips the steep rocky cliff tightly with its bent claws.
It lives high up, near the sun, in faraway and quiet lands where no one else is around.
All around him, there is only the bright blue sky, and he stands there proudly and still.
Far below him, the sea appears to move slowly, like it has wrinkles on its surface.
The eagle looks down from the top of the high mountains where he lives.
Then, with great power and speed, he suddenly dives down like a bolt of lightning.
