T he dying flower of its shining beauty which is at the head of the rich valley will be like the first fig grown before the summer. When one sees it, he takes it in his hand and eats it.
And the fading flower of the beauty of his glory That on the head of the fat valley, Hath been as its first-fruit before summer, That its beholder seeth, While it yet in his hand he swalloweth it.
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