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August is ripening grain in the fields blowing hot and sunny, the scent of tree-ripened peaches, of hot buttered sweet corn on the cob. Vivid dahlias fling huge tousled blossoms through gardens and joe-pye-weed dusts the meadow purple.
— Jean Hersey
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When summer gathers up her robes of glory, and like a dream of beauty glides away.
— Sarah Helen Whitman
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