Always its the yield of it that tells

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

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!

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