Lawrence Hall
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A Village for Our
Exile
Far is that City of God for which we hope
Here the cities of man in which we live
Glorious, but still only refugee camps:
Constantinople, Athens, London, Rome
Give us for our exile a village instead
A pub, a library, a shop, a little
school
Cows and sheep grazing on the grass
of the commons
A hay wain lumbering through the summer stream
Draught horses drinking from the little rill
In the ford below the slow-clacking mill
(Cf. John Constable, “The Hay
Wain”)
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