The Saw

All quiet save the silken stir of leaves,
Swirling, scattering, plunging sunshine,
A fragrance here of woodlands everywhere,
The fondling earth where flowers dwell.

But ripping through the air a jagged roar,
Whirling, chattering, snarling iron,
A beast despairing so of some great loss
That he would bring me loss as well.


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