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There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.
November by Walter de la Mare
Old lady: ‘Tell me young man, when does the next train come in, and how long does it stop?’
Young man: ‘From two to two to two-two’
Old lady: ‘Good lord! Are you the trumpet?’