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I shall have no choice but to go, When the gas is low And the curtains have been drawn, From the smoking rows Of chimneys where our home-fires glow In fear of dawn. From the sleeping stones of the cobbled street To the hunters' meet, From the still to the gathering storm, In the misty gloom An autumn morn whose memories loom In spectral forms. Passing grey-brick ghosts as they stand in line, Hedging paths that wind Through a past that ever grows, Where a child once played With others, ah, I long to stay And I must go. |
(1974) |
Adapted from a public domain photo, photographer unknown |
Created: November 17, 2014. | © Stephen Alsford |