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 T is the clay that makes the earth stick to his spade; He fills in holes like this year after year; The others have gone; they were tired, and half afraid, But I would rather be standing here;

There is nowhere else to go. I have seen this place From the windows of the train that's going past Against the sky. This is rain on my face— It was raining here when I saw it last.

There is something horrible about a flower; This, broken in my hand, is one of those He threw in just now: it will not live another hour; There are thousands more: you do not miss a rose.

One of the children hanging about Pointed at the whole dreadful heap and smiled This morning, after THAT was carried out; There is something terrible about a child.

We were like children, last week, in the Strand; That was the day you laughed at me Because I tried to make you understand The cheap, stale chap I used to be Before I saw the things you made me see.

This is not a real place; perhaps by-and-by I shall wake—I am getting drenched with all this rain: To-morrow I will tell you about the eyes of the Crystal Palace train Looking down on us, and you will laugh and I shall see what you see again.

Not here, not now. We said "Not yet Across our low stone parapet Will the quick shadows of the sparrows fall."