For You, Katie

There's a place called Far-away meadow

We never shall mow in again,
Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:

The meadow is finished with men.

Then now is the chance for the flowers

That can't stand mowers and plowers.

It must be now, through, in season

Before the not mowing brings trees on,

Before trees, seeing the opening,

March into a shadowy claim.

The trees are all I'm afraid of,

That flowers can't bloom in the shade of;

It's no more men I'm afraid of;

The meadow is done with the tame.

The place for the moment is ours

For you, oh tumutuous flowers,

To go to waste and go wild in,

All shaps and colors of flowers,

I needn't call you by name.

The Last Mowing
By Robert Frost

Pull through Katie. Pull through.