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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
Coming home from school a young boy proudly says to his father: Father! “I followed the bus home from town today, on my bicycle and saved £1.50.
His father cuffed him on the ear, and growled, “You fool!”
“But father, I thought you’d be proud of me for saving the fare!”
“Yes,” said the father, “But you could have followed a taxi and ten pounds!”