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The crowd was only a crowd,
Containing, as usual, no-one,
And, being empty, was loud,
And fun being had, time crawled on.

And then was ready: a sea
Of faces parts on either hand
And lets through one who’s to be
Your pilgrim, you the promised land.

What comes thereafter no-one knows.
You two rhyme and the rest is prose.
But if beyond I can’t see,

This I can: to the dead of night
Your face had brought an air as bright
As the way you look to me.

John Gibbens

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