what's o'clock
139
The soggy streets of Teignmouth town.
Mr. John Keats walks along the streets
Of Teignmouth and asks every soul he meets
If the sun ever shines in Devonshire,
Whether the weather they live with here
Is sometimes what one might really call fair,
With the sun in the sky and a brisk to the air?
The hat of Mr. John Knute is wet,
But his eyes are sharp and ferret-set,
He is-seeking the sun with a quicksilver-rod,
Noting the veer in a neighbour's nod,
Gauging the drift of a neighbour's words
'As they might be a flock of South-come birds.
Mr. John Keats walks along the streets
Of Teignmouth and asks every soul he meets
If the sun ever shines in Devonshire,
Whether the weather they live with here
Is sometimes what one might really call fair,
With the sun in the sky and a brisk to the air?
The hat of Mr. John Knute is wet,
But his eyes are sharp and ferret-set,
He is-seeking the sun with a quicksilver-rod,
Noting the veer in a neighbour's nod,
Gauging the drift of a neighbour's words
'As they might be a flock of South-come birds.
Atkins, the coachman, sets his mug
Down on the counter and gives a shrug.
"'Lor' love you, Sir, if I was to tell
The way I know, you Riche call it smell.
I smell it right across the rain,
Down on the counter and gives a shrug.
"'Lor' love you, Sir, if I was to tell
The way I know, you Riche call it smell.
I smell it right across the rain,
