For who ever sleeps in London dreams each morning of a pier,
And a flowing sail, and a burnished sea,
And an azure sky that is not for me,
While my darling sings at the Seagul’s bow
In Venice now.
For after Goodwood, when Cowes follows,
And the blue-blood leaves us like the swallows,
Hark! where the blooming flower-cart in the street
Leans ’neath its weight and scatters for the drover
Petals and old clothes—’neath the bovine feet.