  A HARVESTER throws up the sheaves, And hums a merry old refrain, Some thistles show their prickly leaves Among the swaths of yellow grain. The briar bushes soft and green Quite hide the zig-gag fence away, And all the space that lies between Is carpeted with new-mown hay. The heat of noonday presses all To rest and silence, full and deep, And still the cheery robins call To show that they are not asleep. |
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