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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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We bore him through the golden land,

One early harvest morn;

The corn stood ripe on either hand--

He knew all about the corn.

How shall the harvest gathered be

Without him standing by?

Without him walking on the lea,

The sky is scarce a sky.

The year's glad work is almost done;

The land is rich in fruit;

Yellow it floats in air and sun--

Earth holds it by the root.

Why should earth hold it for a day

When harvest-time is come?

Death is triumphant o'er decay,

And leads the ripened home.

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