Spoils of the day

The beauty of every early
Morn is to run through its dew
Take home sheaves of barley
Owls hooting, doves coo
The late worm in vain burrows
When the wild bird picks it up in furrows
Together with the farmer's grain seeds
In the infinite blue, the full moon, cedes
The hunter slings his quiver,
Hot on the heels of his game

Before the sun does its trick;
 And erase the prey's track,
Bend, crack his hunting-bow o'
Make your head boil
In the sweltering heat
And crawl back to the house with no grain of wheat. 



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