Arch waved Quincy off. “You’ve made me lose my place. Let’s see—I—I’ll just begin at the next stanza.” “The next stanza?” Quincy replied with impatience. But Arch continued, undeterred: Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press,
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