Yes, here, where the golden domes ring clear, And the planes patiently, hopefully renew Their green refrain from year to year To the dim spring burden of London’s husky blue, Here he could see the folly of it. How? Confine a boundless possible within The prison of an ineluctable Now? Go slave to pain, woo forth original sin Out of her lair—and all by a foolish Act? Madness! But now, Wordsworth of Leicester Square, He’d learnt his lesson, learnt by the mere fact Of the place existing, so finely unaware Of syphilis and the restless in and out Of public lavatories, and evening shout Of winners and disasters, races and war. Troubles come thick enough. Why call for more By suiting action to the divine Word? His spleen was chronic, true; but he preferred Its subtle agony to the brute force That tugged the barbs of deep-anchored remorse. The sunlight wrapped folds of soft golden silk About him, and the air was warm as milk Against his skin. Long sitting still had made Cramped soreness such a pleasure, he was afraid To shift his tortured limbs, lest he should mar Life’s evenness. London’s noise from afar Smoothed out its harshness to soothe his thoughts asleep, Sound that made silence much more calm and deep. The domes of gold, the leaves, emerald bright, Were intense, piercing arrows of delight. He did not think; thought was a shallow thing To his deep sense of life, of mere being. He looked at his hand, lying there on his knee, The blue veins branching, the tendons cunningly Dancing like jacks in a piano if he shook A knot-boned finger. Only to look and look, Till he knew it, each hair and every pore— It seemed enough: what need of anything more? Thought, a blind alley; action, which at best Is cudgelling water that goes back to rest As soon as you give over your violences. No, wisdom culls the flowers of the five senses, Savouring the secret sweetness they afford: Instead of which he had a Medical Board Next week, and they would pass him fit. Good Lord! Well, let all pass. But one must outdo fate, Wear clothes more modish than the fashion, run Faster than time, not merely stand and wait; Do in a flash what cannot be undone Through ten eternities. Predestinate? So would God be—that is, if there were one: General epidemic which spoils nobody’s fun. Action, action! Quickly rise and do The most irreparable things; beget, In one brief consummation of the will, Remorse, reaction, wretchedness, regret. Action! This was no time for sitting still. He crushed his hat down over his eyes And walked with a stamp to symbolise Action, action—left, right, left; Planting his feet with a slabby beat, Taking strange Procrustean steps, Lengthened, shortened to avoid Touching the lines between the stones— A thing which makes God so annoyed.