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by Carl Holliday

A gray-brown field and a misty hill,
A deepening shadow in every rill,
A calm, and, lo, from all around
A strange, far sound.

A gathering-in of the fruit of hand,
A sighing for rest in the weary land,
A haze of smoke, and the leaves' dry heap
For things that sleep.

A psalm to God and a prayer that He
The guardian of our harvest be,
That we may midst the winter's roar
Find joy in store.

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