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Friday, September 29, 2006

Fly with the high fields



Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

From: Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas

Ossian

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