| Summer mourning
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| I resolved to slip away
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| There is nothing, there is no one
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| Who would have a word to say
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| I venture off down some suburban London lane
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| There is nothing, there is no one
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| To whom I need explain
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| I turn, I turn and the houses fall behind
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| Who would have thought
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| That I’d be one who would so hope to find
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| These pale green fields
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| Their vibrating repetition
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| The slight change from the morning
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| To the afternoon edition
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| So long, so long
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| Moving on, moving on
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| The road it narrows and head high flowers appear
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| Thick with some toxicity
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| A solved but certain fear
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| And in this grove a channel cuts its small divide
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| I expect to find Ophelia drifting calmly by
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| So I continue, I alight upon the town
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| Admiring the people moving purposely around
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| In the market there’s a woman
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| So elegantly veiled
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| Perfect darkness of her fabric
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| At description, I would fail
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| Do I imagine or do I catch her gaze
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| Does she smile for a moment within the summer haze
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| It hardly matters. |
| did I forget to say
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| I’m a spectre
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| I’m a shadow across a perfect summer day
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| Moving on, for leaving off
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| Away, away, away |