The hatless babes are dancing through
The gutters of the square.
Not on Sicilian headlands of song and old desire,
My spirit chose her pleasure-house, but in the London mire:
Long, long alone she loves to pace,
And find a music in the place
As in a minster choir.
O deeds of awe and rapture! O names of legendry!
Still is it most of joy within your altered pale to be,
Whose very ills I fain would slake,