Breath soft air, brier sweet

brings petal fall

from age blessed flowers.

Soft washed sun

sweeps down the hours,

guild's the paint-box leaves.

Chestnut, hazel, oak shall call;

for harvest's hand

does fruitful grow.

Gather now to bind and bale,

and glean the fields

to breaded sheaves.

Wane's the sun across the vale

brings time for birds

to dance the plough;

as man now tills

his bounteous land.

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