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a poem by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Master went a-hunting, 
When the leaves were falling; 
We saw him on the bridle path, 
We heard him gaily calling. 

'Oh master, master, come you back, 
For I have dreamed a dream so black!' 
A glint of steel from bit and heel, 
The chestnut cantered faster; 
A red flash seen amid the green, 
And so good-bye to master. 

Master came from hunting, 
Two silent comrades bore him; 
His eyes were dim, his face was white, 
The mare was led before him. 

'Oh, master, master, is it thus 
That you have come again to us?' 
I held my lady's ice-cold hand, 
They bore the hurdle past her; 
Why should they go so soft and slow? 
It matters not to master. 


Master a poem by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


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