The heavy mahogany door with its wrought-iron screenShuts. And the sound is rich, sympathetic, discreet.The sun still shines on this eighteenth-century sceneWith Edwardian faience adornment -- Devonshire Street.No hope. And the X-ray photographs under his armConfirm the message. His wife stands timidly by.
The opposite brick-built house looks lofty and calmIts chimneys steady against the mackerel sky.No hope. And the iron knob of this palisadeSo cold to the touch, is luckier now than he
"Oh merciless, hurrying Londoners! Why was I madeFor the long and painful deathbed coming to me?"She puts her fingers in his, as, loving and sillyAt long-past Kensington dances she used to do
"It's cheaper to take the tube to PiccadillyAnd then we can catch a nineteen or twenty-two".