(Written after a contemplation of one of our outer suburbs, and on hearing of the threatened lock-out in the building trade.)
Can this be true? that hodmen strike?
The very thought my soul bewilders.
Has Art, has beauty got no spike
To perforate the breasts of builders?
Her bricky teeth flung far and wide,
On virgin fields my London browses,
The amaranthine plains are pied
With nutty little bijou houses.
Here Daphne makes the junket set