There was never a sound beside the wood but one and that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? … It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, or easy gold … The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows. My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.                         (“Mowing”) As I age, my mind reviews one by one people, events and places from the past. I surprise myself by a preoccupation with the American poet who lived from 1874 to 1963, Robert Frost. I had not thought of…