The Yorkshire Grey like any other pub, Quietly blazes till the final shout “Time’s-up” sends the companions tumbling out, Giving their lips a last reluctant rub. And if you’re passing by on any day You’ll hear a woman with a barrel organ, Sing in a high cracked voice what sounds like “Morgen, Morgen kommt nie und heute is mir weh,” And every day whether its rain or shine She holds an old umbrella with a handle Of curiously carved silver. Whether scandal Or tragedy, its no affair of mine. Why should I care then when some drunken feller Sends her to blazes, her and her umbrella. WARDOUR STREET. There’s a small cafe off the Avenue Where Alphonse, that old sinner, used to fix A five-course dinner up at one and six, And trust to luck and youth to pull him through. I can’t remember much about the wine Except that it was ninepence for the quart Called claret and was nothing of the sort, Cheap like the rest and like the rest divine. But Alphonse, I suppose, is long since sped And madame’s knitting needles rusted through And even Marguerite, like us she flew To wait on, waited on by death instead. Well Alphonse, well Madame, well Marguerite They’ve no more use for us in Wardour Street. THE SUBURBS. Because they are so many and the same, The little houses row on weary row; Because they are so loveless and so lame It were a bitter thing to tell them so. And ill to laugh at those who hither came Not without hope and not without a glow, And who, perchance, by sorrow struck or shame Not without tears look back before they go. Here is no place for laughter nor for blame, And not for tears, since none shall ever know What here is done and suffered, nor proclaim The end to which these myriad spirits grow. He understands, whose heart remembereth That here is all the tale of life and death. THE LAST LONDON SONNET. All roads in London lead the one last way, Like little streams that find a flowing river They find the one great road that runs for ever, Yet has no London name. They know it, they Who when the lamps in Oxford Street are lighted And star-strewn Thames through all his bridges moving, Velvet assumes, see not for all their loving These things they loved, hear not, as uninvited, To London revel calling Piccadilly. They have gone over to the bitter stranger Light-foot and heavy, hug-the-hearth and ranger Our streets desert. And under rose and lily (Even through Kew were unto lilac setting) Sleeping they pass forgotten and forgetting. OTHER VERSE. “SOMETIMES WHEN I THINK OF LOVE.” I.