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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
The Farmers Union heard that a local farmer was not paying proper wages to his workers and sent a union rep out to interview him.
'I need a list of your employees and how much you pay them,' demanded the union representative.
'Well,' replied the old farmer, 'There's my farm hand who's been with me for 3 years. I pay him £250 a week plus free room and board. Then there's the shepherd, who has been here for 18 months, and I pay him £200 a week plus free room and board. Then there's the half-wit who works about 18 hours every day and does about 90% of all the work around here. He makes about £5 per week, pays his own room and board and I buy him a bottle of whisky every Saturday night.'
'That's the guy I want to talk to, the half-wit,' said the rep.
'That would be me,' replied the old farmer.