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by Briar
Oh, Harvester, before Thee, blades of grass
Bend low, expectation sad and sweet,
The morning air, cool and clear as glass,
And brittle as the frost beneath my feet,
Sings of fulfillment, of the Earth laid bare,
Of fruitfulness and barrenness of time,
And of the sacred passage, as we share
The Harvest, both poignant, and sublime.
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