Clinton Scollard

Dawn, the Harvester

  The purple sky has blanched to blue
    With freaks and streaks of rose and fawn,
  While on the rolling meads of sea
    Gleam the gold footsteps of the Dawn.

  What harvest, think you, will he find
    Whither he sets his feet to roam?
  Upon that boundless beryl plain
    Only the lilies of the foam!

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