Poems of London, and Other Verses

Spring in Oxford Street

A dash of rain on the pavement, In the air a gleam of sun, And the clouds are white, and rolling high From Marble Arch all down the sky --And that's the spring begun!

The sky is all a-shining With sunniest blue and white, The flags are streaming out full cry As the crisp North wind comes bustling by, And all the roofs are bright.

And all the shops and houses Of sunlit Oxford Street, --Pearl behind amber, gold by rose-- To grey the long perspective goes; Till all the houses meet.

And there, in every gutter, The glory of spring flowers The whole long street with colour fills, And across the yellow daffodils Sharp sunshine and soft showers.

And among the drabs and greys and browns Of folk going to and fro Are trays of violets, darkly bright, And yellow, like the spring moon's light, Pale primrose-bunches show.

There's blue in every puddle, And every pane of glass Has a thousand little dancing suns, --And up and down the glad news runs, That spring has come to pass.

Judd Street, St. Pancras

My dwelling has a courtyard wide Where lord with lady well might pace, --Such silks and velvets side by side, And she a fan to shield her face!-- It's fine as any king's; For there I see on either hand The whole great stretch of London lie; --Just so as any king might stand Upon his roof, to watch go by The flashing pigeon wings.

Just so a king might look abroad: "And this is all my own," says he, And then he'd turn to some great lord, Who'd acquiesce with gravity --But that I do without, For all of lord there is up here Is this impassive chimney-stack, And cloudy be my view or clear My courtier will not answer back; All silent I look out,

And see the flight of roofs that fade Towards the West in golden haze, And all this work men's hands have made Like jewels in the sun's last rays-- I have a dwelling wide; Three rooms are mine, but I can go Up to this roof in shade or shine, And watch all London change and glow Rose, purple, gold; three rooms are mine-- And all of heaven beside.

Sparrows

Brown little, fat little, cheerful sparrows! I like to think, when I hear them chatter, How, when the brazen noise was gone Of the chariot-wheels, with the sparks a-scatter, Their chirp was heard in old Babylon.

In Babylon, and more ancient Memphis, They chattered and quarrelled, pecked and fumed, And loved their loves, and flew their ways, Where the royal Pharaohs lay entombed Deep from the daylight's vulgar gaze.

Then, just such little homely fellows (When the angry monarch, terrible, Watched his curled Assyrians writhe) They sat, on a carven granite bull Unheeding of anguish, feathered and blithe.

So did they sit, on the roofs of Rome, And preen themselves in the morning sun; And Caesar saw them, brown and grey, Whisk in the dust, when his course was run And he took to the Forum his fated way.

Oh, changing time; oh, sun and birds How little changing. In the Square This winter morning I have met Old Egypt's grandson, stopped him there, And "Sir, you will outlive me yet," Said I politely, "mark my words."

High above houses, high and clear Above the scaffolding, So exquisite, so faint a thing, The young moon's silver curve that shines Above the fretting, tangled lines, With the old moon in her ring.

The young moon holds the old black moon In a sky all grey with frost, By cable wires barred and crossed, And below, the haze of purplish-brown Smokes upward from the lamp-lit town Where outlines all are lost.

The pure pale arch of windless sky, The pure bright young moon's thread, These wide and still are overhead; And in the dusky glare below The lamps go dotting, row on row, And there is movement, to and fro, Where far the pavements spread.

And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth A faint star throbs and beats-- And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war, Below, in the quiet street.

Counted Out--olympia

The small white space roped off; the hard blue light Burning intensely on the narrow ring, And every muscle's movement sculpturing Harshly, of those two naked men who fight; Beyond, the yellow lights that seem to swing Across abysmal darkness; and below, Tier upon tier, all silent, row on row The dense black-coated throng, and all a-strain White faces, turned towards the narrow stage, Watching intently; watching, nerves and brain, As those two men, cut off in that blue glare From all reality of place and age Wherein our common being has a share, Together isolated, watch and creep --Sunk head, hunched shoulders, light of foot and swift, Deadly of purpose--in that ancient game, Which was not otherwise in forests deep Of earth primeval: that light tread the same, The same those watchful eyes, and those quick springs Of a snake uncoiling; underneath the skin, Glistening with sweat in that unearthly blaze, The muscles run and check, like living things. And then, the hot air tremulous with the din, And all the great crowd surging to its feet, Yet like a wave arrested, while the hands Of the referee allot the moments' beat; The seconds, strung like greyhounds on a leash Await the signal; and there's one who stands Still guarding, watchful, tense, while all around Lamp-light and darkness seem to rock and spin In one wild clamour; and upon the ground, Beneath the stark blue light, the beaten man!

It was to me of a beauty That I could not understand, Though I dimly guessed at sorrow and joy In a grown-up distant land.

All that I know with the years, Much that I never shall know, Was in my heart when the music came In such guise, years ago.

And now when on Friday mornings I hear my own child run, When the German band in the street starts playing, The wonder is never done;

The wonder at ways that our spirit May take for itself to rise, How a puddle may be a silver lake, And a chimney touch the skies.

All the forms through which spirit Yearns and strives to be known Are only a little greater or less, For great is the Spirit alone.

I

There comes an old man to our street, Dragging his knobby, lame old feet, Once a week he comes and stands, A concertina in his hands, There in the gutter stops and plays, No matter fine or rainy days --Very humble and very old-- Pavement's for them who make so bold! Prim, starched nurses, and ladies fair With taffeta dresses and shining hair, And gay little children, who break and run To give him a penny--he seems to feel (Out-at-elbows and out-at-heel) That they've a right to the morning sun; And so with gnarled old hands he'll play For an hour, perhaps, then take his way, Dragging his knobby, lame old feet In the gutter of this quiet street.

There is no grudging in his eyes, Nor anger, nor the least surprise At the uneven scales of fate: Glad of the sun, against the rain Hunching his shoulders, age and pain He takes as his appointed state, And stands, like Lazarus, at the door With the dread humility of the poor.

And though it was middle afternoon And none of the lamps were lighted yet, The night had settled down too soon And the sky was low and dark and wet.

In a cracked old voice I've heard him sing, Strangely capering to and fro, Sawing his fiddle on one worn string, A grotesque and desolate thing of woe,

Wagging his head and stamping his feet (Unwitting of the passers-by Hurrying through the gloomy street) His shoulders hunched and his head awry.

The children would laugh when they saw him pass, And "Look," they'd say, "at Crazy Joe!" And press their faces against the glass To watch him--leering and lurching--go.

Where he comes from, nobody knows, But he, being mad, is in God's hand, And sacred upon his way he goes; And his music--God will understand.

Piccadilly

Above, the quiet stars and the night wind; Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk When the just sleep, at night, in London town.

Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare, Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind Is whispering to the trees across the Park;