Song of the Scythe

I was three spires south of Minster
When the marshland ceased to moan
And my grief became a garland
And her death a dovecote
And the hoodeners start their reincarnation act of their play
And the reaper strikes the whetstone
For the sharpening of his blade
"Swing away, the fallow years away"
Sings the beheaded land
To the dying of the day
To the dying of the day
To the dying of the day