  IScarce hath the crookÈd scythe Duly been whetted When all the mowers blithe (By the storm letted, Crouching the shed beneath At the field’s margent) See the first fallen swathe Pelted with argent. White mist the valley blurs, White the horizon, Since the cloud skirmishers Sent their first spies on. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.
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