POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Laugh from the smooth mould
Of tile garden beds
To the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.
I shall not see
The almond blossom shaming
The soot-black boughs.
But to the right the road will lead me
To greater and greater disquiet;
Into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses,
And the dust, the tattered paper—
The detritus of a city—
That swirls in the air behind them.
I will pass the shops where the prices
Are judged day by day by the people,
And come to the place where five roads meet
With five tram-routes,
And where amid the din
Of the vans the lorries, the motor-'busses,
The clangorous tram-cars,
The news is shouted,
And soldiers gather, off-duty.
Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever;
And I can make,
As each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,
No spring and no woman's beauty,
While that is burning.
[232]
