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48 Polite Conversation The winnowed sun in a shade of green Cradles the crispy English tongue In the spring. My sun at home Is a scourge, Searing the brain to submission. But neither Is like yours, Ringing of ancient rites And mysteries untold, Gaunt pale people From the North. You (with your Nordic limning, Like a medieval Christ) Find this place, you say, Short of primary colours, Clear definitions, That England has played her games for too long, Become suave and is dying. I confess to liking her latitudes, If nothing else. Your white vestments shimmer in half light, And you look very tall. ...

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