Through the corn the chil-dren creep,
Where the nod-ding pop-pies sleep,
Fill-ing hands and a-prons white
With the scar-let blos-soms bright.
Gau-dy pop-pies must not stay
Till the fu-ture har-vest day:
They would wi-ther when the heat
Ri-pens all the gold-en wheat—
Life for them is short and sweet. |
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