And is off to the seaside or moors.
So the Park is deserted. The keeper
Stalks alone where pricked rider and groom,
All unswept is the crossing, the sweeper
Standing idly at ease with his broom.
Where but now rolled the Marquis’s carriage
The rare hansom crawls, hopeless of fare,
And there is not one notice of marriage
On the books of St. George of the Square.
All the noise and the glitter are banished