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Cootham Lane
Twilight has encircled The flowers in the garden, And the sky is dim and faint. The flowers are as cold as alabaster, And luminous like paint Of an old Venetian master. In the church across the fields They are asking pardon. And in twilight Comes the echo Of an ancient door that closes, And the echo of their voices. For now they go, the villagers- Along the road they go again, Under the unrepentant stars, Across the fields and through the lane.