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From the damplands of the north - the weathered hillsides, the sodden moors - I went walking to clear my head, to think it over, what we said. To the bright lights of the town, the ins and outs of it, the ups and downs; the furtive cafes, the dark hotels, the secret courtyards, the peel of bells.
And though I stumble, though I fall, I’m not done here, I’m not done at all.
Well everything’s late this year, everything’s late. The pretty flowers in your hair will have to wait. There is love within us, there is love without. There is love that’s nowhere to be seen yet all about. And though I stumble, though I fall, I’m not done here, I’m not done at all.
And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England’s mountains green? And was the holy lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen? And did the countenance divine shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem built here among these dark satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold, bring me my arrows of desire. Bring me my spear - oh clouds unfold! - bring me my chariot of fire. I will not cease from mental fight nor shall my sword sleep in my hand ’til we have built Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land and though I stumble, though I fall, I’m not done here, I’m not done at all.