CRIES OF LONDON
What dusky branches fret the yellow sky,Betsey, beyond our urban balconyHow darkly looms the street;And from below how many a note assailsYour unaccustomed ears where London wailsAbout your little feet.Here, princess of a sombre citadel,You stand, the muffin-man with twilight bellPreludes your early teaAnd where the milk-man on melodious waysSlowly meanders, you incline to praiseHis clear delivery;How pitiful you scan the vagabondWho cries his ferns as though each arid frondSprang from his arid heart,And list the lamentable sweep complainUrging in wrath against the slanting rainThe sable of his cart.These for your little ears, so lately blestWith cluck of painted poultry on the nestAnd rooks’ loquacious flight,Who, when the pear-blossom was hardly blown,Answered the cuckoo’s folly with your ownAnd chid the owls at night.Dear, I could thank you for your brave content—But, ah, beware, when spring is gone and spent,Lest summer’s dusty stirLead gypsies Londonwards from scented loamOf Mitcham and the furrows nearer homeWith song of “Lavender!”Then close your casement, shun the outer air,Let no sublime virago mount the stairAnd bring the rustic South,Lest some quick memory of all beforeAnd the great silver bush beside the door,Deject your happy mouth.
What dusky branches fret the yellow sky,Betsey, beyond our urban balconyHow darkly looms the street;And from below how many a note assailsYour unaccustomed ears where London wailsAbout your little feet.Here, princess of a sombre citadel,You stand, the muffin-man with twilight bellPreludes your early teaAnd where the milk-man on melodious waysSlowly meanders, you incline to praiseHis clear delivery;How pitiful you scan the vagabondWho cries his ferns as though each arid frondSprang from his arid heart,And list the lamentable sweep complainUrging in wrath against the slanting rainThe sable of his cart.These for your little ears, so lately blestWith cluck of painted poultry on the nestAnd rooks’ loquacious flight,Who, when the pear-blossom was hardly blown,Answered the cuckoo’s folly with your ownAnd chid the owls at night.Dear, I could thank you for your brave content—But, ah, beware, when spring is gone and spent,Lest summer’s dusty stirLead gypsies Londonwards from scented loamOf Mitcham and the furrows nearer homeWith song of “Lavender!”Then close your casement, shun the outer air,Let no sublime virago mount the stairAnd bring the rustic South,Lest some quick memory of all beforeAnd the great silver bush beside the door,Deject your happy mouth.
What dusky branches fret the yellow sky,Betsey, beyond our urban balconyHow darkly looms the street;And from below how many a note assailsYour unaccustomed ears where London wailsAbout your little feet.
Here, princess of a sombre citadel,You stand, the muffin-man with twilight bellPreludes your early teaAnd where the milk-man on melodious waysSlowly meanders, you incline to praiseHis clear delivery;
How pitiful you scan the vagabondWho cries his ferns as though each arid frondSprang from his arid heart,And list the lamentable sweep complainUrging in wrath against the slanting rainThe sable of his cart.
These for your little ears, so lately blestWith cluck of painted poultry on the nestAnd rooks’ loquacious flight,Who, when the pear-blossom was hardly blown,Answered the cuckoo’s folly with your ownAnd chid the owls at night.
Dear, I could thank you for your brave content—But, ah, beware, when spring is gone and spent,Lest summer’s dusty stirLead gypsies Londonwards from scented loamOf Mitcham and the furrows nearer homeWith song of “Lavender!”
Then close your casement, shun the outer air,Let no sublime virago mount the stairAnd bring the rustic South,Lest some quick memory of all beforeAnd the great silver bush beside the door,Deject your happy mouth.