Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call. Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past, Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last; Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.
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John Masefield
John Edward Masefield OM (/ˈmeɪsˌfiːld, ˈmeɪz-/; 1 June 1878 – 12 May 1967) was an English poet and writer, and Poet Laureate from 1930 until 19…
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