Zangwill

Joseph Leftwich

1932

Someone gathered rich apples, rich corn,
Grown of your heart and your brain,
And in me, as a loft, has stored
Some of the fruit and grain.
The loft smells sweet with its store:
The corn for making bread,
And apples for cider to drink.
And the floor for a weary head.
Though your fields grow no more grain,
And your trees no more apples bear,
You…
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