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HARVEST
ALONG the dusty highway,
And through the little town,
The people of the country
Are riding up and down.
Behind the lines of fighting
They gather in all day
The harvest, folk are reaping
At home and far away.
If on the hills about us,
Where now the thrush sings low.
The face of earth were bitter.
It would not hurt us so.
Though earth grew strange and savage
And all the world were new.
It would not tear our memory
The way the cornfields do.
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