And bloom with unsuspected gables;
The cubic area of the things
Prevents one getting round the tables.
To weave such nests, so fair, so coy,
Should be the workman's bonum summum,
To me it were all mirth, all joy
To paint, to whitewash, or to plumb 'em.
Far other was the task of thralls
Who had to rear these inner suburbs,
Piling the sad Victorian walls