The quiet sky sags from the steeple And lingers with the lonely people Lagging into church, their breathing pent To bells still singing round them;
Earth is newborn today, and innocent, Old senses are wiped clean To feelings all original; see, Edges and shadows are tinged with brown And down the lane, between the hedges, Suspended spiders are diamond fringed; hear, Where the milkman's horse slows up the hill Each hoof-beat waits to punctuate The cart-wheel's hooped and hammered prose; feel, In each tingling finger tip's quick pulse The instinct of the blood.
I stand alone Within the glistening walls of mist, Where distance shrinks to one enchanted arc - A tarmacadam road that needs repair, Some yards of muddy lane, Two grey church walls with seventeen Abandoned bicycles, and me - My autumn universe.
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