F. S. Flint

From “In London”

IF I go out of the door,

It will not be

To take the road to the left that leads

Past the bovine quiet of houses

Brooding over the cud of their daily content,

Even though

The tranquility of their gardens

Is a lure that once was stronger;

Even though

From privet hedge and mottled laurel

The young green peeps,

And the daffodils

And the yellow and white and purple crocuses

Laugh from the smooth mould

Of the garden beds

To the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.

I shall not see

The almond blossom shaming

The soot-black boughs.

But to the right the road will lead me

To greater and greater disquiet;

Into the swift rattling noise of the motor-’busses,

And the dust, the tattered paper—

The detritus of a city—

That swirls in the air behind them.

I will pass the shops where the prices

Are judged day by day by the people,

And come to the place where five roads meet

With five tram-routes,

And where amid the din

Of the vans, the lorries, the motor-’busses,

The clangorous tram-cars,

The news is shouted,

And soldiers gather, off-duty.

Here I can feel the heat of Europe’s fever;

And I can make,

As each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,

No spring and no woman’s beauty,

While that is burning.