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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.
Adapted from a public domain photo, photographer unknown
|Created: November 17, 2014.||© Stephen Alsford|