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In Church
In Church, by D.H. Lawrence

IN the choir the boys are singing the hymn. 
        The morning light on their lips 
Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim. 
Sudden outside the high window, one crow 
        Hangs in the air         5
And lights on a withered oak-tree’s top of woe. 
One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top 
        Of the withered tree!—in the grail 
Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop. 
Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway  10
        In the tender wine 
Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day. 

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