OFF Piccadilly with its pavement cries, Its maddening monotone of wheel and hoof, In the Green Park primeval Summer lies, How near, how yearning, yet how far aloof! O city, symbol of a world that still Heedless of beauty under heaven rolls; And thou, blithe meadow all with larks athrill Like Poetry, that pasture of great souls— Ye twain, so sundered, shall forever dwell, A tumult and a blessing side by side: Here, as to toil-worn Argo once befell A singing island on a thundering tide, Where men might stretch them out in glad release, We too, much-wandering, hail this hour of peace! |