Saw we were linked by longings for the shining shell-strewn bars.
For the realms reserved for rovers, for the rafts and painted signs,
And the right to moor to ring-heads in the far-off border lines.
THE VACANT LOT
They’re going to build a flathouse on the lot next door to me;
And Roger Jones, the janitor’s boy, is mad as he can be.
That lot was like a tropic isle, with weeds and rubbish fair,
The rusty cans and coffee pots, that looked like Roger’s hair.