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The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit, The bread-tree which, without the ploughshare, yields The unreap'd harvest of unfurrowed fields. These, with the luxuries of seas and woods, The airy joys of social solitudes, Tamed each rude wanderer. Saturday, December 2nd.
The scent of the woods, and the peculiar aroma of a great yet unreap'd maize-field near by the white butterflies in every direction by day the golden-rod, the wild asters, and sunflowers the song of the katydid all night.
From anything like a cosmical point of view, the entirety of imaginative literature's themes and results as we get them to-day seems painfully narrow. All that has been put in statement, tremendous as it is, what is it compared with the vast fields and values and varieties left unreap'd?
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