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by Douglas Malloch

When sheaves are stacked in bounteous heaps
On summer's fertile plain,
When he who gleaned the treasure sleeps
And dreams of garnered grain,
The air grows warm, the night grows still—
A memory of June—
And slowly o'er the distant hill
Ascends the harvest moon.

It bathes the sheaves in silver floods
Of light of heavenly birth,
It lights anew the fields and woods,
It glorifies the earth.
Forgotten now the winter's snow,
The summer's glaring sun.
And heaven above and world below
Are mellowed into one.

So, when the days of toil are o'er
And harvest days are here,
Thanksgiving comes with bounteous store—
The moonrise of the year.
Its rays reveal the blessings sent
To cheer our dreary ways,
And heartaches old and discontent
Are mellowed into praise.

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