The Code

Robert Frost (1874-1963).  North of Boston.  1915.
 
11. The Code
 

 
THERE were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger         5
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.
"What is there wrong?"         10
 
"Something you just now said."
 
"What did I say?"
 
"About our taking pains."
 
"To cock the hay?

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