The Beanfield

A beanfield in blossom smells as sweet
As araby, or groves of orange flowers;
Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet,
How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours.
When soothing night is left upon the flowers,
Another morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field,
And bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers,
And sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.
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