Here lies a wretch, arterially ill, Who forty years frequented Ludgate Hill, From whence, as furtively as any mouse, He hopped into a neighbouring printing house, And spent his days there, and his nights within, Or slept upon a floor in Lincoln's Inn. Cockney he was, and loved to see St. Paul's, Pauline himself, though schooled without the walls; And held all other places cheap and vile Save London City's famous one square-mile, And the last church he went to was St. Bride's. Now still he sits in sight of southern tides. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CONFESSIONAL by ROBERT BROWNING POPPIES IN THE WHEAT by HELEN MARIA HUNT FISKE JACKSON HYMNS OF THE MARSHES: THE MARSHES OF GLYNN by SIDNEY LANIER IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 82 by ALFRED TENNYSON THE COLD WAVE OF 32 B.C. by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 11. TO THE COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND by MARK AKENSIDE THE GRAVE OF COLUMBUS by JOANNA BAILLIE |