The beech is dipped in wine; the shower Is burnished; on the swinging flower The latest bee doth sit. The low sun stares through dust of gold. And o'er the darkened heath and wold The large ghost-moth doth flit. In every orchard Autumn stands, With apples in his golden hands. –Alexander Smith (1829–67) |
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THE OLD FARMER SELECTED THESE PRODUCTS FOR YOU |
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