Especially I could tell Of the Town of Hell, A huddle of dirty woes And houses in endless rows Straggling across all space; Hell has no market-place, Nor point where four ways meet, Nor principal street, Nor barracks, nor Town Hall, 140 Nor shops at all, Nor rest for weary feet, Nor theatre, square, or park, Nor lights after dark, Nor churches nor inns, Nor convenience for sins, Hell nowhere begins, Hell nowhere ends, But over the world extends Rambling, dreary, limitless, hated well: 150 The suburbs of itself, I say, is Hell. But back to the sweets Of Spenser and Keats And the calm joy that greets The chosen of Apollo! Here let me mope, quirk, holloa With a gesture that meets The needs that I follow In my own fierce way. Let me be grave-gay 160 Or merry-sad, Who rhyming here have had Marvellous hope of achievement And deeds of ample scope, Then deceiving and bereavement Of this same hope. HENRY AND MARY Henry was a worthy king, Mary was his queen, He gave to her a snowdrop, Upon a stalk of green. Then all for his kindness And all for his care She gave him a new-laid egg In the garden there. Love, can you sing? I cannot sing. Or story-tell? Not one I know. Then let us play at king and queen, As down the garden lawns we go. AN ENGLISH WOOD This valley wood is hedged With the set shape of things. Here sorrows come not edged, Here are no harpies fledged, No roc has clapped his wings, No gryphons wave their stings; Here, poised in quietude Calm elementals brood On the set shape of things, They fend away alarms From this green wood. Here nothing is that harms, No bull with lungs of brass, No toothed or spiny grass, No tree whose clutching arms Drink blood when travellers pass, No mount of Glass. No bardic tongues unfold Satires or charms. Only the lawns are soft, The tree-stems, grave and old. Slow branches sway aloft, The evening air comes cold, The sunset scatters gold. Small grasses toss and bend, Small pathways idly tend Towards no certain end. MIRROR, MIRROR! Mirror, Mirror, tell me, Am I pretty or plain? Or am I downright ugly And ugly to remain? Shall I marry a gentleman? Shall I marry a clown? Or shall I marry Old Knives-and-Scissors Shouting through the town? WHAT DID I DREAM? What did I dream? I do not know. The fragments fly like chaff. Yet, strange, my mind was tickled so I cannot help but laugh.