At first, the news from the farmhouse sounds like an ending: a place called Far-away Meadow will never be mowed again, and the meadow is “finished with men.” But the speaker quickly turns to what can now happen. The flowers kept out by mowers and plows finally have their chance. The chance is urgent, though—if the field is left unmowed too long, trees will see the opening and move in, and the speaker fears their shade far more than he ever feared men. The meadow is “done with the tame.” For the moment, it belongs to the “tumultuous flowers,” unnamed and of every shape and color, free to go to waste and grow wild. He doesn’t even need to call them by name. The mood is fond, a little wistful, and full of attention to a brief interval between human control and the coming woods.
The Last Mowing — Summary
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; though, 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 tumultuous flowers, To go to waste and go wild in, All shapes and colors of flowers, I needn’t call you by name.