Sweet rain, bless our windy farm
Stepping round in skirts of storm
While these marble acres lie
Open to an empty sky
Sown deep, the oaten grain
Awaits, as words wait in the brain,
Your release that out of dew
It may make the world anew
Sweet rain, bless our windy farm,
Steeping round in skirts of storm
Amongst the broken clods the hare
Folds his ears like hands in prayer
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