Where they Lived by Thomas Hardy

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DISHEVELLED leaves creep down / Upon that bank to-day, / Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown; / The wet bents bob and sway; / The once warm slippery turf is sodden / Where we laughingly sat or lay.

The summerhouse is gone, / Leaving a weedy space; / The bushes that veiled it once have grown / Gaunt trees that interlace, / Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly / The nakedness of the place.

And where were hills of blue, / Blind drifts of vapour blow, / And the names of former dwellers few, / If any, people know, / And instead of a voice that called, "Come in, Dears," / Time calls, "Pass below! "

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