Never around the dappled trunk to play
Again with tricksy beams, and breezes bold.
Night swathes the sober light in thickening fold,
Like a grey moth, webb'd in a prison grey,
And the wan willow to the dying day
Gleams like despair, unsolaced and untold.
Now from the village tow'r the bells begin
Their sad-soul'd chiming, as a sullen boy
Wails on in wantonness. Oh, to greet again
Thames's bright Strand, his theatre-studded joy,