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Always its the yield of it that tells

By Doris Peel / February 3, 1983



Here where I so unsurely came as the cruel April opened cold with savage winds, with blinding rain the harvested fields are ploughed again. Where the barley blew, in wave beyond

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waveto the ruined church, so far away, now in this deep autumnal sun let the earth that's served lie still again. And never mind how it all began: the too-much risked, the headlong days. The garnered grain is good - they say who bread receive! Who proffer praise!