The hasty convenience of labels
And seriously examine one’s destination.
If poplar-trees, brief violets and green glades
On any country road had each received
An incongruous name—Smith’s Tree,
C. Jackson’s Clump, or Ferguson’s Depression—
And city streets had never known a label,
Most poets would have turned their fluid obsession
On lamp-posts and the grandeur of ash-cans.
It would be grimly realistic now