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Poem by Henry Newbolt
Among the woods and tillage That fringe the topmost downs, All lonely lies the village, Far off from seas and towns. Yet when her own folk slumbered I heard within her street Murmur of men unnumbered And march of myriad feet. For all she lies so lonely, Far off from towns and seas, The village holds not only The roofs beneath her trees: While Life is sweet and tragic And Death is veiled and dumb, Hither, by singer's magic, The pilgrim world must come.
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