April 2012
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Swerving east, from rich industrial shadows / And traffic all night north; swerving through fields / Too thin and thistled to be called meadows, / And now and then a harsh-named halt, that shields / Workmen at dawn; swerving to solitude / Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants, / And the widening river’s slow presence, / The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud,
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