Cut Grass

Philip Larkin （1922-1985）

Cut grass lies frail：

Brief is the breath

Mown stalks exhale.

Long， long the death

It dies in the white hours

Of young-leafed June

With chestnut flowers，

With hedges snowlike strewn，

White lilac bowed，

Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace，

And that high-builded cloud

Moving at summer's pace.