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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
A miser had fallen into a well. A peasant, passing by, heard his cries and caught sight of him at the bottom of the well, in water up to his chin. The peasant bent down as far as he could, and said: ‘Give me your hand, I will pull you out’. Hearing the word ‘give’, the miser refused to listen any further and remained motionless, preferring to drown. ‘Well, take my hand then!, cried the peasant. At this, the miser seized the hand eagerly, and was saved.