Iambs

 

I make my grass by pretty swale,
Not a green snake stirs from fear.
My scythe is a Shakespeare time,
In  sonnet’s limbs of pentameter.
Excuse me ,we are short of iambs
At feet, lost to vast empty spaces.
Nearer a home our Frost’s scythe
Mows spiked grass a wood frame,
Making the finest grass of reason.

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