THE SUBURBS.
BECAUSE they are so many and the same,
The little houses row on weary row;
Because they are so loveless and so lame
It were a bitter thing to tell them so.
And ill to laugh at those who hither came
Not without hope and not without a glow,
And who, perchance, by sorrow struck or shame
Not without tears look back before they go.
Here is no place for laughter nor for blame,
And not for tears, since none shall ever know
What here is done and suffered, nor proclaim
The end to which these myriad spirits grow.
He understands, whose heart remembereth
That here is all the tale of life and death.
THE LAST LONDON SONNET.
ALL roads in London lead the one last way,
Like little streams that find a flowing river
They find the one great road that runs for ever,
Yet has no London name. They know it, they
Who when the lamps in Oxford Street are lighted
And star-strewn Thames through all his bridges moving,
Velvet assumes, see not for all their loving
These things they loved, hear not, as uninvited,
To London revel calling Piccadilly.
They have gone over to the bitter stranger
Light-foot and heavy, hug-the-hearth and ranger
Our streets desert. And under rose and lily
(Even through Kew were unto lilac setting)
Sleeping they pass forgotten and forgetting.