Harvest

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When the golden kernels are in

and the purple fruit, too,

and the words are gathered;

save for me a heel of bread

and the dregs of wine,

save for me a throwaway line.

And the orchestra gets weary

and the barmen tire, too,

and the lovers leave;

save for me a melody

and a barefoot dance,

save for me a whispering chance.

And if it grow cold and it be a mile,

and if I grow old; stay with me a while.

- Ralph Murre