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All night the wind screamed out its pain,
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shaking the elms in the back field,
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rattling the tin roofs of allotment sheds,
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iron-clad warriors
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crossing the face of the moon.
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In the blacked-out house we lay entwined,
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safe in our tent of flannel
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bed sheets, woollen blankets,
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hearing the wild sounds
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as from the mountains of Titan,
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seeing only the glow
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of our own pale eyes,
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feeling the touch of warm flesh,
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the heat of close bodies,
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faintly trembling.
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In the morning all was still.
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We could see to the far horizon,
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ships of war riding the grey estuary.
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Silently we climbed upon broken elms
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strewn about the back field,
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remembering the ends of days.
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