The corn field
Flooded by yellowish gold
Had the whispering breeze to play with,
And a lad, a ploughman's son,
There how with his plough homeward did tread,
His strawhat, slanted down,
Could not stop the sun to greet-
Him, swayed by the picturesque treat
Of the cornfield, bearing the dreams of his toils,
By the light of fading day so beautifully lit.
(Note: * a painting by Berthe Morisot, the american impressionist painter,)
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