I wish you’d seen that bleak December dawn
Beside the road from Harmondsworth to hell,
And looked upon the bitter years to mourn,
And heard the distant toll of Christmas bell.
Where were the angels bent on hov’ring wing?
No heaven-born joy could light the lonely plain,
But just one cracked and ragged voice to sing
Beneath the cold grey skies and winter’s rain.
Though all the works of man shall turn to dust,
Yet I shall do as I believe I must.

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