SMITH SQUARE, WESTMINSTER
In Smith Square, Westminster, the houses stand so prim,
With slender railings at their feet and windows straight and slim;
And all day long they staidly stare with gentle placid gaze,
And dream of joyous happenings in splendid bygone days.
In Smith Square, Westminster, you must not make a noise,
No shrill-voiced vendors harbour there, no shouting errand-boys;
But very busy gentlemen step swiftly out and in
With little leather cases and umbrellas neatly thin.
Yet sometimes when the summer night her starry curtain spreads,
And all the busy gentlemen are sleeping in their beds,
You hear a gentle humming like the humming of a hive,
And Smith Square, Westminster, begins to come alive.
For all the houses start to sing, honey-sweet and low,
The tender little lovely songs of long and long ago,
And all the fairies round about come hastening up in crowds,
Until the quiet air is filled with rainbow-coloured clouds.
On roof and rail and chimney-pot they delicately perch,
They hang like jewelled fringes on the ledges of the church;
They dance about the roadway upon nimble, noiseless feet,
While the houses keep on chanting with a soft enticing beat.
And still they weave their sparkling webs and still they
leap and whirl
Until the far horizon's edge is faintly rimmed with pearl,
And the morning breeze blows out the stars discreetly, one by one,
And the sentries on the Abbey signal down—"The Sun—the Sun!"
And long before the butlers stumble drowsily downstairs,
And long before their masters have begun to say their prayers,
The fairies all have pranced away upon the morning beams,
And Smith Square, Westminster, is wrapped once more in dreams.