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a web of many textures

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Hail! beauteous queen — (not literally, please!
Thy reign I 'd rather signalize in verse;) —
My full heart drops in homage on its knees,
The while thy glories it would fain rehearse.
Blest of Pomona, thy redundant horn
Is full of fruitage, and around thy brow
Bright vines are twined, with berries that adorn
Thy golden ringlets with a ripened glow!
Ceres her trophies brings, and at thy feet
Pours out the bounteous harvest's golden rain,
And gushing wine, in pipes, makes music sweet,
While sturdy Plenty dances in thy train.
O, Autumn! I could sing a song sublime
In praise of thee, from now till Christmas time.


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