Excuse me ,we are short of iambs
At feet, lost to vast empty spaces.
Nearer a home our Frost’s scythe
Mows spiked grass in wood frame,
Making the finest grass of season.
In the snowed hills we see pretty
Dames with grass on their heads
Rising all the way to the hill grass
As if hill is continuation of dame.
The scythe lies snug in the dame.