| Past the ivy-covered windows of
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| The Angel
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| Down Athenaeum Lane to the cathedral
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| Through the churchyard I wandered
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| Sat for a spell there and I pondered
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| My back to the gates of the garden
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| My back to the gates of the garden
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| My back to the gates of the garden
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| Fugitive fathers, sickly infants, decent mothers
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| Runaways and suicidal lovers
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| Assorted boxes of ordinary bones
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| Of aborted plans and sudden shattered hopes
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| In unlucky rows, up to the gates of the garden
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| In unhappy rows, up to the gates of the garden
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| In unlucky rows, up to the gates of the garden
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| Won’t you meet me at the gates
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| Won’t you meet me at the gates
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| Won’t you meet me at the gates
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| To the garden
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| Beneath the creeping shadow of the tower
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| The bell from St. Edmunds informs me of the hour
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| I turn to find you waiting there for me
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| In sunlight and I see the way that you breathe
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| Alive and leaning on the gates of the garden
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| Alive and leaning on the gates of the garden
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| Alive and leaning on the gates of the garden
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| Leave these ancient places to the angels
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| Let the saints attend to their keeping of the cathedrals
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| And leave the dead beneath the ground so cold
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| For God is in this hand that I hold
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| As we open up the gates of the garden
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| Won’t you meet me at the gates
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| Won’t you meet me at the gates
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| Won’t you meet me at the gates
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| To the garden |