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When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the calling of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow,
and gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet new grass with flowers,
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not theupland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.