(Fool that he is)—and fumble with his warrant,

And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"

Mocking I’ll go, and he shall be postillion,

Until we reach the Keeper of the Door:

"H’m ... Benson ... Stella ... militant civilian ...

There’s some mistake, we’ve had this soul before...."

*     *    *     *     *     *

Ah, none shall keep my soul from this its Zion;

Lost in the spaces I shall hear and bless

The splendid voice of London, like a lion

Calling its lover in the wilderness.

TWO WOMEN SING

First Woman

Oh woman—woman—woman,—

Shall I to woman be a friend?

I deal with man, and when I can

Reclaim with interest all I lend.

Who but a witless gambler plays

For farthing stakes these golden days?

No, woman—woman—woman—

 Prev. P 14/32 next