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Song

Song

Last night, I fell to dream
of Castle Combe,

its shambling mists and tawny stream,
the holy pathos of its homes.

Wind-washed clouds, the lunar gleam
of cream-colored stone.

And there, somewhere between
drowsy dusk and day, I stood alone

in fevered dream,
in Cotswold cold,

woke to air, moon-tide dimmed,
and the lulled hush of wool-

soft hymns
with all hope gone.