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On a bright November day, Wending our merry way Along a narrow twisty lane, By a cyclist with a cheery wave, Cars parked near a monastry, When there, up high, burned in the hall, A giant, sinister and still Half hidden by the shadowy sun, Stood guard, on view to everyone. The mist still lingered, though it was gone eleven, As Woden blankly stared from heaven. Leaning stolidly on his spears Awakening all our heathen fears, Remembrance Day and the God of War, His outline glinted, and we saw The passing dead from down the ages, Saddened fingers turning pages, The writing plain for all to see, But no one seems to heed the plea. Lay down your arms and look upon The Long Man of Wilmington. 11 am. 11th NOVEMBER, 1918. |