A poem not necessarily about the sound a scythe makes while being used to mow hay.
The poet does not imagine anything fanciful about the sound; but that the labor is truth enough.
Apparently, this poem has more to do with art, poetry, working, and truth. The poet is making the argument that art or poetry is enough as it is, and reading too much into it weakens the art. And as for working, one must work to find the truth about anything, like a practice; and doing so will strengthen one's senses of exacting truth or discerning truth.
Just feeling a poem or a work of art is not going to bring one to the truth -- that's childishness, immature, and lazy. You must work or dig for it. It isn't imaginative. It is work. Like swinging one's scythe into the tall hay all day long.
The poet does not imagine anything fanciful about the sound; but that the labor is truth enough.
Apparently, this poem has more to do with art, poetry, working, and truth. The poet is making the argument that art or poetry is enough as it is, and reading too much into it weakens the art. And as for working, one must work to find the truth about anything, like a practice; and doing so will strengthen one's senses of exacting truth or discerning truth.
Just feeling a poem or a work of art is not going to bring one to the truth -- that's childishness, immature, and lazy. You must work or dig for it. It isn't imaginative. It is work. Like swinging one's scythe into the tall hay all day long.