Lovers who spoon, children who play,—
All, all who Nature love.
"Nor do I give them wholesome homes
For verdant meads—no, there's the fun!
Stuccodom, frail and sickly, comes
After 'Lot Twenty-One!'
"I make a clearing, dig a trench,
Run up a shell of rotten bricks.
And thus the rule of sham and stench
Upon the 'site' I fix.