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George MacDonald - The New Year
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Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:
What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low—
Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
When joyous in death`s harvest-home we go.
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