Streets, and Other Verses

Part I

Douglas Goldring

Streets

Church Street wears ever a smile, from having watched bright belles

Coming home with young men, after balls, “at all hours.”

Its villas don’t mind; they say, “Go it, young swells,

We’ve been young, too!” But Ebenezer Street glowers.

Chapel deacons live here, with side whiskers and pompous wives,

Who play hymns on Sundays, and deeply deplore sinful acts.

They’re convinced that their neighbours lead scandalous private lives;

—That you and I ought to be shot, “if one knew all the facts.”

Goreham Street’s sad. Here lives old Jones the poet—

He knew Swinburne and Watts, and has letters from “dear Charlie Keene.”

Loo Isaacs lives here as well, and poor Captain Jowett:

And the “Goreham Street Murder” was over at number thirteen.

Now George Street (E.C.) strikes a cheerful and strenuous note;

It is full of live men of business, of ’buses and noise;

Of Surbiton gents, very sleek, in top-hat and fur coat;

And earnest young clerks who perspire, and take classes for boys.

But Audley Street has a calm and a gently fastidious air!

Here I shall live when I’m rich, with my wife and my car:

When we are pleased, we’ll never shout nor ruffle our hair,

And a lift of the eyebrow will show how annoyed we are.

This is where life is lived nobly and sweetly and well:

Here are beauty, all hardly-won things, and courage and love.

Why people worship the slums and the poor so, I can never tell,

For it’s virtue and baths and good cooking go hand in glove!

Villas

(Leytonstone)

All down Jamaica Road there are small bow windows

Jutting out neighbourly heads in the street,

And in each sits, framed, a quiet old woman.

These watch the couples who pass or meet,

And some have borne sons, now ageing men;

And most have seen death in their narrow house;

Heard wedding bells for their grandchildren;

Seen boys seek the bar for a last carouse;

And heard wives cry, through thin plaster walls,

And watched babies laugh in the sun, outside.

They treasure things up in their withered old hearts,

And always they sit looking out, with eyes wide.

These queer old women, they watch, as they sit,

Through the whole long day, what happens beneath

They miss not a thing. Sometimes they knit,

And sometimes dream a little, holding their breath.

1910.

Cherry Gardens

(Rotherhithe)

My man fell in, when he was drunk;

They’d thrown him out o’ the “King’s Head.”

From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.

He was my man; he’s dead.

On the cold slab, a sight to see,

They’ve laid him out—poor handsome chap—

In Rotherhithe’s new mortuary.

His head should dent my lap,

But I mayn’t warm him where he lies,

Because I have no ring to show—

Yet I’ve his bruises on my eyes;

And bore his child a month ago.

Mare Street, N.E.

In Mare Street, Hackney, Sunday nights,

My Jim he’d search for souls to save:

Beneath one of them showman’s lights

He’d stand up white and brave.

“And who’s for Jesus now?” he’d call,

“And who’s for Love that’s strong?

Repent, believe: there’s Heaven for all

That turns and flees from wrong....”

I wish no harm to my poor Jim,

But God strike Lizzie dead!

’Twas cruel of her to lead the hymn,

With me laid ill, in bed.

They’re gone—last month—to Leytonstone;

Jim has a pulpit there;

So I’m left hungering here alone,

While she joins him in pray’r.

Kingsland Road, N.E.

As I went walking down the Kingsland Road

I met an old man, with a very heavy load;

He had a crooked nose, and one tooth in his head,

And as I went by him he stopped me, and said:

I’m an old, old man

With a very heavy sack—

But when I was a young ’un

I’d a heavier pack.

Now my eyes are all dim,

But my heart’s full of fun;

Oh! heavy was my heart

When my eyes were young.

I’d a cartload of trouble

All along o’ my wife.

—It was trying to be happy

Made a Hell of my life!

I’m an old, old man

With a gert heavy sack—

But when I was a young ’un

It nigh broke my back!

When I looked in his eyes I saw that they were blue,

And the skin of his face it was wrinkled through and through,

He had big hairy ears, and his beard it was white:

And twittering and laughing he passed into the night.

Living-In

(Brixton Rise)

Through the small window comes the roar

Of all the world of light outside:

It is not midnight, yet our door

Is shut on us, and we are tied.

What is he doing now—my dear?

I left him all on fire for me:

Will he be true? Oh God, I fear

He’ll buy what I would give him free!

Newport Street, E.

Down Newport Street, last Sunday night,

Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast:

She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight,

And Bill strode on like one possest.

O Love’s a curse to them that’s young

’Twas all because of love and drink;

Why couldn’t the silly hold her tongue,

Or stop, before she spoke, to think?

She played with fire, did pretty Nell,

So Bill must hang ere summer’s here:

Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell

Through love, and poverty and beer!

The Spanish Sailor

(Charlton Vale)

Through lines of lights the river glides,

Bestrewn with many a green-eyed ship,

And swiftly down the slinking tides

All night the heavy steamers slip.

Bright shone the moon when he slunk down,

A-sailing to some foreign parts,

Past Greenwich and past Gravesend Town,

And caring nought for broken hearts.

’Twas in July. He kissed and fled:

He stole my all and slipt to sea,

And now I wish that I was dead

—Or that his arms were crushing me.

Outside Charing Cross

(2.35 p.m.)

Of course she’s there to see him off—

Trust her for that. Tears in her eyes, enough to be becoming,

The latest furs, then sympathy, for tea!

And if he’s hit, my own, she’ll hear it first.

She’ll be the one to fly to France,

To bore the Doctor and the Nurse

And drive him mad—if he still lives.

But I, who love him so my heart grows faint,

Who’d gladly bleed to death to save him pain,

Must wait and read the news in some blurred list....

Then, ever the grinning mask, day in, day out,

While she, hard as a stone,

Wears stylish black and tells her lover’s son

How “Father died a hero in the War!”

1915.

Saloon Bar, Railway Arms

(Waterloo Road)

The Sergeant-Major Speaks

Now you get out, you lousy tart!

Outside’s my lawful wife and kids

Turned up to watch the regiment depart,

And all dressed neat, in black.

Why such as you’s orl right, maybe,

In time of peace. And I’ll allow

We’ve ’ad some fun, been on the spree—

But now, you slut, it’s War.

Think o’ your Gord! That’s wot I say.

The Missus there’s respectable—

’Er and the kids. If you don’t run away

I’ll wring yer neck, yer cow! ’Ear me?

You ought to be ashamed of yerself,

Turning up like this and making trouble!

Come on, chuck it! Don’t ’owl. Give us a slobber then....

Now ’op it—poor little swine.

Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus

Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus has three sons killed in the war,

(But to see her brave, sweet face, you would never guess it.)

She has “given” some nephews as well, and cousins galore;

“And if one feels sad,” she says, “one ought to suppress it.”

She belongs to two Funds, some Committees, and several clubs,

Where she states what she’s done for England, with modest pride;

And she works like a black at recruiting outside the pubs;

And is always ready to tell “how her dear ones died.”

There were three of them—Bob, Jack and Arthur—handsome men;

So good to their mother, so courteous, and brave, and kind!

Well—she bred them for England! It was God’s will, Amen;

For her sorrow on earth, a reward in Heaven she would find.

But Lily (the third from the left in “The Beauty-girl’s Glide”)

Belonged to no clubs or committees, wasn’t noble at all;

And the night of Jack’s death, in the wings, she broke down and cried

Till her face was a sight and she couldn’t go on for the Ball.

She hadn’t bred him for England, nor looked for rewards “up above”;

He was all that she cared for on earth; and she railed at Fate

And called down a curse on those who had slain her love.

The “for England” touch she couldn’t appreciate.

But Lily, of course, was only a simple soul.

She lacked Mrs. Calhus’s exquisite self-control.

Little Houses

(Hill Street, Knightsbridge)

Little, houses, though prim, have often a secret glance

That can speak to a heart outside—as one speaks to me—

And even their close-drawn curtains seem to enhance

The charm of their sly reserve, of their mystery....

I like to walk through the Square to your quiet street,

And look at your windows—with just a suspicion of pride—

For I may go in, when I dare, and sit at your feet,

But the people who pass can’t guess what it’s like inside.

They haven’t a notion—but I see your small armchair

And your dog, by the fire, and your novel thrown on the floor;

And I know there will always be flowers when you are there,

And always a smile for me, when I open your door!

Malise-Robes

The address is good—10a, North Molton Street—

I’m clever at the trade, and doing well;

Haven’t a single cause for discontent!

Wilfrid is pleased: I’m safe: why mourn (you say)

The old days when I loved him, and was poor?

Ah, why! Fool, fool—to ask one that.

I love him still, I think. Sometimes he comes

And takes me off to Paris for a week;

Flatters himself I’m “doing well at last”;

That he’s not brought me harm; but, rather, good.

It ought to be enough! And yet, and yet—

You see I’m thirty-five, and I’ve no child....

True, I’ve the shares in “Malise Limited,”

And that’s worth fifteen hundred solid pounds a year....

I’ll marry my Paris buyer. He’s a good sort:

And we’ll soon be very rich.... But I’m so tired.

I wish he’d only kept me in a flat

Somewhere in Maida Vale; come once a week

And let me cook the dinner.... Votes! Good God!

The way to manage women is the Turk’s....

The Young Married Couple

(Muswell Hill)

The Home of the young married couple is pleasant and clean,

They receive me together. They say “Will I please come in,”

And “not mind” some small thing (which I have not seen).

Then: “Dinner is ready now”; and “shall we begin?”

They have a small daughter, and not too much money. They say

That things must look up, by and by. They are merry and brave,

They have grey days and bright days and days of play;

And they always enjoy together the things that they have.

And often I envy my friends, as I sit and read

All alone with my books and my thoughts, without child or wife:

And I think I should like to marry very much indeed—

If only the marriage sentence weren’t for life.

First Floor Back

Little room with the stone grey walls and the dusty books

And a stone paved yard outside, and a high brick wall

(And beyond the wall the trains to and fro passing

All day and all night)—

How I regret you now, little room with no view!

I shall never see you again.

There I was all alone with my own wild heart.

And now I have lent my heart: it is no more mine.

There I was free to soar or to sink, no one speaking a word,

Nothing holding me back, or distracting, or bidding me think

Of callers “coming at five.”

No one ever called, in that small bleak room.

No one called, it was cold. All alone

Came the night to me

And the bitter, grey London morning.

And I was rich, with my bare grey walls,

Rich, with my thoughts and dreams,

Who now am poor—

Imprisoned by plenty and by the years.

Maisonnettes

(Harrow Road)

The houses in Windermere Street are let off in floors,

Which perhaps is the reason it always seems so to “swarm.”

Little groups of girls and young men gather round its front doors

And keen eyes at all windows observe who is “coming to harm.”

Every one in the street knew at once about poor Lizzie Brown!

They saw the young chap she took up with, and “knew how ’twould be”;

And they know why the blinds of the house at the corner are down,

And who pays the second floor’s rent, at a hundred and three.

Walworth Road

Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.);

Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by;

Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between

Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards;

Come in at windows and invade small rooms

To chatter archly in old women’s ears,

Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat,

And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts....

They make bent grandfathers recall the day

They played the fool in the sun, under the sky,

And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps

“Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”

And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,

Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,

Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.

And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,

They tinkle such sly secrets of delight,

That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,

These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs

And memories of a kiss, in that dream world

Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,

And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...

To the strong lads they whisper of the wars,

Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves

Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose

In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea;

Or of adventures, where the world is warm

And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach

Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet

Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde—

Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened—

Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....

Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee,

With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!”

But get a punch on the nose from British boys,

Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails,

And go adventuring through the burning blue,

And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin,

And make an island (as the daylight fades)

Which has a fierce volcano in her midst

And a little white port, with clustering white houses,

And pirate vessels in her anchorage....

They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams!

Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes,

The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge,

The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on;

Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be

How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.

The Country Boy

1908.

The Letter

“O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the Park

Very near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home—

What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and dark

When there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come?

“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng,

There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street,

And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a song

In the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!

“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you,

And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours,

But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few,

And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.

“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind,

It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange:

This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind,

And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.

“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it right

Just because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by,

To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight.

O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”

Lodgings

(Bloomsbury)

As I climb these musty stairs,

To my garret near the roof—

Past the ladies singing airs

From the latest OpÉra-bouffe—

I can see her little feet

Twinkling in the brilliant light,

I can hear the words so sweet

That she said for my delight,

When the whirling dance was over

And she joined me in the night.

As I climb these hard-worn stairs

To my garret near the roof,

All her pretty, subtle airs,

As she kept me half-aloof,

Fill my thoughts and banish cares;

I can hear her soft reproof

When I kissed her unawares,

As I climb these weary stairs

To my garret near the roof.

“L’Ile de Java”

(To Madame Josse)

Madame, from out the hurrying throng

Two boys have come to drink and talk;

And one will make a little song

And one a drawing, done in chalk.

When all goes wayward with our art

And beauty dances out of sight,

It’s good to still a hungry heart

With chatter far into the night.

Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines,

Gay visions come to tired eyes;

How bright the Isle of Java shines

Beneath what deep, cerulean skies!

Transported to that dazzling clime

Where sunlight scalds a silver beach—

We can forget the flight of time,

And falterings of line and speech.

We can forget our isle of dream

Is no more real than thoughts that fly—

And follow close the magic gleam

Which charms and haunts us till we die.

And so from out the hurrying throng

We two have come to drink and talk;

And I have made a little song,

And he a drawing, done in chalk!

1908.

The Poplars

Oh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy,

Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beam

Stol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry,

From lips new parted in some childish dream!

See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall,

They stand like pillars against the darkling sky,

And over the little lake their shadows fall....

See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by.

If you can love this little, why not all?

Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why....

Oh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow:

Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours,

And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I know

That the treasure I seek you deny,

And the heart of you, soul of you, keep.

III

I would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this,

And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks out

The shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss,

And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.

Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes,

But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon.

Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries,

And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon?

1911.

West End Lane

Now through the dripping, moonless night,

Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,

They trace their footsteps by the light

Of love that fills their weary eyes.

“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place,

With far less joy in it than tears,

To set my lips to your warm face

Is worth a sight of dismal years!”

“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,”

She whispers softly.... “See, the rain

Has stopped, the clouds are broken through,

The stars are shining clear again!”

Pausing, they gaze across the Heath

Submerged in fog—a dim hush’d lake

Wherein the wretched might seek death,

And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.

Then clasping hands, and touching lips,

They dream beneath great sombre trees,

Whence large and solemn-falling drips

Are shaken by the restless breeze.

“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear,

As kisses in the quiet night:

Lean close, and let me hold you near,

Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!

“Why, should we wait, so cold and wise?

We’re only human, Nell, we two;

And even if love fades and dies—

I shall remember this: won’t you?”

Hampstead

Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill!

(All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls

And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still.)

O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!

Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!

Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.

Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,

Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!

I love those small old houses, with bright front doors,

And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:

Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores)

And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.

Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit,

In autumn and winter. In summer a rose

Climbs in through the open window, caressing it;

And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.

III

Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes

Bloom all to beauty of soft look and word.

Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms

Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.

Do you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the right

When you reach the top, which climb to a walk

Shaded by elm-trees of great girth and height;

And there are seats there, where lovers talk.

And all in front is a valley, wide and deep—

In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs:

In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep,

Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....

It rained, the wet poured from the leaves;

They by the churchyard; entered in

And sheltered underneath the eaves—

So sweetly close; yet firm her chin.

Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood;

And she—half frightened and half kind—

Whispered the warning words “be good,”

But left his venturous arm entwined.

When the shower stopped his hopes sank low,

Farewell kind walls and darkling spire!

They walked forlornly down Church Row;

Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire.

Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green—

There parted, by a watery moon.

His heart went throbbing “Might have been,”

But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”

At Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow light

Pour from the bar upon a preacher’s head

Who howls unheeded warnings to the night:

Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed.

Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro

And search the passing faces—some find mates;

Against the railings leans a giggling row;

An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.

The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam;

Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips,

While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream,

And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.

VII

So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue

You may spy cities, dim in the dim sky,

Stretching-strange roadways to the inner view.

See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....

Oak Hill Way

He: May I stop and kiss you here,

O, my dear?

She: You may stop, but I’ll not stay:

I’m going homewards now—Good day!

He: Here’s a lane, and quiet, too:

’Tis where the folks from London woo,

Two and two.

She: It leads to Kilburn, where I live:

I promised I’d be back at five—

I must be quick or I’ll be late,

No, no—I dare not wait.

He: See, Maggie, it’s called Lover’s Lane,

So other’s girls are kind, that’s plain.

This love’s a thing that all men know;

There, link your arm in my arm—so.

She: I didn’t think you were so silly:

Walk up—it’s chilly.

He: O, since in life there’s little bliss,

And most of it lies in a kiss—

Don’t turn those cruel lips away,

But just one moment, Maggie, stay!

...

Lor! here’s the blessed street. Oh! why....

She: You foolish lad, don’t ask. Good-bye!

Spaniards’

The moon shone withering, wild and white,

And ruddy gleamed the bars,

And far below, the city’s light

Streamed up to meet the stars.

“Look down,” ses Tom, “them streets that shine,

And look, the gaudy sky!

By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine”

—And glad enough was I.

Oh, why did blow so soft and warm

That breeze on Spaniards’ Road!

I never thought to take no harm,

Nor bear so hard a load.

1913.

Richmond Park

What do I want with your little, shrinking love?

See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above,

I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart that cry—

And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky!

You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses,

I will fly off and forget....

Ah!

How can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”:

You will not answer now, “it grows so late”—

And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!

Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word!

Listen a little while—you turn away.

What? Your head droops.... You are frightened?

Run in and hide.

Westminster Bridge

(June Night)

The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink,

Slide swiftly circlewise and fade

To where the West is olive-pink

And rosy mists the river shade.

And sullen, purposeful and strange

The silent stream glides on, beneath

The patient bridge that will not change,

And all the city holds its breath.

Then gazing towards the sunken sun

A pale girl eyes his lingering gleam,

A soul whose little day is done,

For whom will come no night, no dream.

1908.

Gladstone Terrace

A very sordid street of red and green—

Red houses and green paint—but in between

Each villa lies a little garden space

Cherished on Summer Sundays. See his face,

(A two-pound Clerk next morning) as he sweats,

Tending the strawberries which his baby eats!

A fool is he, not virtuous, but content:

He hears no wings of God omnipotent,

Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath.

Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride,

For see, what hopes and longings here reside,

What gracious mysteries of love and death.

Front Doors

(Bayswater)

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square

The streets have an inhuman air,

The houses—(six imposing floors;

Dark, formidable, fierce front doors;

Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind;

Ball-room or billiard-room behind)—

Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold,

None but the ugly and the old....

Watch, as you wander hereabout,

The people who go in and out!

Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats,

Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats,

Flock in procession, pompous, grand,

Or drive in motors to the Strand;

And massive women, towering high,

Dart glances from a hawklike eye,

Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze,

Then drive (to train for several teas),

Snub the companion, pat the dog,

Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.

Jerusalem no more golden is

Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis!

Her portals strike an awe profound—

“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!

Quell impropriety of tone;

Hawkers and circulars begone”—

For here the ruling race reside

And guard our pledges and their pride.

Her doors are sour: they never smile,

But icily stare for mile on mile—

Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard:

Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

The Ballad of the Brave Lover

(Thames Embankment)

She wandered by the river’s brink,

Her stricken heart stood still:

She listened for his hastening step

With mind to win or kill.

From Ipswich up to London town

Long days, long nights walked she:

And now had tracked the soldier down

Who caused her shame to be.

She could not breathe, her throat grew dry,

Her soldier looked so brave and strong:

“Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry,

“What brings you here along?”

“From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,”

She moaned, “your broken promise gave.”

He looked and laughed: “Poor little one!

I’ve used you ill, I have.”

She sank, and saw him smile good-bye—

She who had thought to kill or win.

He was too fine, too bold to die,

The weak must suffer for his sin.

The Quarry

All down that dismal villa’d street,

With ugly green front doors,

I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feet

And wonder which was yours!

And when the bedroom candles shone

And night fell deep and dark,

The road would fade, and I’d press on

Across some faery park.

And you before me, you so near!

—Elusive, ’mid the trees.

I the bold horseman, you the deer—

What nights, what dreams were these?

Must Love and Beauty always fly

The eager arms of men?

Oh, I shall hunt you till I die,

And when I live again!

In a Taxi

Come, give your hands to me, and lean

Your dear bright head against my coat.

Let me tear loose the furs that screen

The ivory column of your throat.

Now, yield your hungry lips to mine,

You passionate child! You cling so tight,

The blood goes to my head like wine,

As we race, breathless, through the night.

How the time flies! We’re nearly there.

Now grow sedate and proud once more—

Put back your furs, bind up your hair,

But pause, awhile, outside your door.

No one can hear! So now, good-bye!

Darling, to crush you, in the gloom,

With kisses, would be ecstasy....

“Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

1908.

In Praise of London

I, the son of London men,

Give thanks to London once again.

Here was I born; and I will die

Under this friendly leaden sky—

Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

City of beauty, flower of cities all—

Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar

(Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall)

While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore—

Yours is a glamour which the years enhance

And in your grimy streets lives all romance!

When I go out into the world

To see the wonders there unfurl’d,

Though marvelling much, when I lie down

My thoughts fly back to my own town.

Memories of familiar streets

Comfort me under foreign sheets

And Cockney humour brings the laugh

When bocks of foreign beer I quaff.

My thoughts fly home. I see again

Remembered houses, roads and men.

The great town grows before my eyes,

I hear its murmurs and its sighs,

Travel, in dreams, the streets I knew

And roam from Greenwich Park to Kew.

I love to think of bland Pall Mall

(Where Charles made love to Pretty Nell)

And rich South Audley Street, and Wapping,

And Bond Street and the Christmas shopping,

Knightsbridge, the Inner Circle train,

And Piccadilly and Park Lane;

Kensington, where “nice” people live

Who give you tea (top-hat) at five;

And Church Street, and that little path

Which leads to the Broad Walk and the Pond

Where boys sail boats and sparrows bath—

And the dear woodland slope beyond....

I love Hyde Park, the Serpentine,

And Marble Arch at half-past nine,

The graceful curve of Regent Street,

The Queen Anne charm of Cheyne Walk

(Its church, with Polyphemus’ eye,

And those great chimneys, climbing the sky!)—

The Inns of Court and that discreet

Tavern where Johnson used to talk;

The bustle of Fleet Street and the blare

Of Oxford Circus, Leicester Square;

Charing Cross Road, with books for all

In shop and window, case and stall;

Imperial Westminster, the Stores,

Where Colonel Tompkins buys cigars;

The AthenÆum, where he snores;

The “Troc,” and several other bars;

The hall where Marie makes us roar

With jokes our consciences deplore

And where dear Vesta Tilley sings

—Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!—

Where Robey leaps on from the wings,

And good old X forgets her part.

Then who can think of Richmond Hill

In summertime, without a thrill?—

Remembering days with Rose or Nan

When friendship ended, love began,

And glamorous evenings in the park

Under the beech trees hush’d and dark—

The deer at gaze with glistening eyes,

The London lights aglow in the skies

(But far away) and no sound there

Save the caught breath and little sighs

That come from joy too great to bear.

Richmond, all London lovers know

Your upland glades, and how, below,

The bright Thames twines about your knees

Through the green tracery of your trees....

And just as I on Whitsunday,

Have brought my girl to spend the day,

So to your hill my fathers came

And, sure, my son will do the same.

...

What sights there are, for those who know,

In every part of this great city!

Our men are mixed, it’s true, but oh,

Are not our London maidens pretty?

Look! you may see them everywhere—

Laughing in ball-rooms in Mayfair,

At tea at Ranelagh, or walking

On Sunday in Hyde Park and talking

The latest nonsense! What a sight,

In frocks adorable and costly!

At Epping too (East-enders mostly)

You’ll see good London girls at play;

On Hampstead Heath—and every day

They troop in crowds up Chancery Lane....

I’ll own, some Brixton girls are plain,

The Ealing girls are proud and silly,

They’re a queer lot in Piccadilly

And—personally—I can’t stand

The huzzies who infest the Strand.

But in the bulk, far though you roam,

You’ll find no girls like ours at home.

Then what good cheer is London cheer

When welcoming the infant year;

On Derby day; or Christmas even;

Or when Aunt Jane pops off to Heaven!

In friendly restaurant or grill

You drink your bottle, eat your fill,

Digest, while watching Russian dancers,

Drive next to supper at some pub,

Then mingle with the rag-time prancers,

In a night cafÉ—called a club.

And so to bed, should it be June,

While the birds sing their morning tune

And the sun flushes all the East

And tips with rose chimney and roof.

Heigho! the ending of the feast—

The kiss good-bye, and no reproof!

I cannot praise as I would praise

The mother of my nights and days.

Mine only in rough notes to sing

Songs of the streets from which I spring.

I, the son of London men,

Give thanks to London once again.

Here was I born and I will die

Under this friendly leaden sky—

Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

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