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There's a
place called Far-away Meadow
We never shall mow in
again,
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 tumultuous flowers,
To
go to waste and go wild in,
All shapes and colors of
flowers,
I needn't call you by name.
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