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Poem by Alfred Edward Housman More Poems. 14. The Farms of Home Lie Lost in Even The farms of home lie lost in even, I see far off the steeple stand; West and away from here to heaven, Still is the land. There if I go no girl will greet me, No comrade hollo from the hill, No dog run down the yard to meet me: The land is still. The land is still by farm and steeple, And still for me the land may stay: There I was friends with perished people, And there lie they. Alfred Edward Housman Alfred Edward Housman's other poems:
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