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Charles Hamilton Sorley
- There where the rusty iron lies,
- The rooks are cawing all the day.
- Perhaps no man, until he dies,
- Will understand them, what they say.
- The evening makes the sky like clay.
- The slow wind waits for night to rise.
- The world is half content. But they
- Still trouble all the trees with cries,
- That know, and cannot put away,
- The yearning to the soul that flies
- From day to night, from night to day.
© 2000 Elena and Yacov Feldman