On the Beaulieu Road
Oaks stand bearded with lichen
Like witches that knot the birch;
But hark! the cow-bells chiming
That call no one to church.
Oak-leaves to crown an empire
Lie sodden as brown dulse,
While chiming bells in the distance
Die like a fitful pulse.
Like witches that knot the birch;
But hark! the cow-bells chiming
That call no one to church.
Oak-leaves to crown an empire
Lie sodden as brown dulse,
While chiming bells in the distance
Die like a fitful pulse.
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