The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
William Wordsworth.
The Reverie of a Poor Squeezed ’un.
At the East end of Paul’s, there’s a plot that’s for sale;
And the Press sings out, “Buy it!”—the cry’s somewhat stale.
The Londoner, hustled and crowded, can tell
How narrow the roadway, the pavement as well.