Bright Harvest by Grace Noll Crowell - HTML preview

The dew all wet upon the grass,

The twilight sweet with clover,

And every little house I passed

Sent up a curling feather,

Where there were women making tea,

And families were together.

Quite empty handed, home I came,

But I am rich recalling

The morning walk to Avonlee,

And back when night was falling.

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