A Harvest Song
The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky;
The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye;
And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors—
Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.
Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun:
Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done.
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