Autumn By John Greenleaf Whittier Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has autumn poured From out her lavish horn. Let other hands exulting glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine. But let the good old corn adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God.
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