Far as the eye can travel,

That nothing can unravel.

Wail with as keen a woe

Five hundred years ago.

 Yet even this place of steamy stir, This pit of belch and swallow, With chrism of gold and gossamer The elements can hallow. I have a room in Chancery Lane, High in a world of wires, Whence fall the roofs a ragged plain Wooded with many spires. There in the dawns of summer days I stand in adoration, While London's robed in rainbow haze And gold illumination. The wizard breezes waft the rays Shot by the waking sun, A myriad chimneys softly blaze, A myriad shadows run. Round the wide rim in radiant mist The gentle suburbs quiver, And nearer lies the shining twist Of Thames, a holy river Left and right my vision drifts, By yonder towers I linger, Where Westminster's cathedral lifts Its belled Byzantine finger, And here against my perchèd home Where hold wise converse daily The loftier and the lesser dome, St. Paul's and the Old Bailey. ECHOES There is a far unfading city Where bright immortal people are; Remote from hollow shame and pity, Their portals frame no guiding star But blightless pleasure's moteless rays That follow their footsteps as they dance Long lutanied measures through a maze Of flower-like song and dalliance. There always glows the vernal sun, There happy birds for ever sing, There faint perfumèd breezes run Through branches of eternal spring; There faces browned and fruit and milk And blue-winged words and rose-bloomed kisses In galleys gowned with gold and silk Shake on a lake of dainty blisses. Coyness is not, nor bear they thought Save of a shining gracious flow, All natural joys are temperate sought, For calm desire there they know, A fire promiscuous, languorous, kind; They scorn all fiercer lusts and quarrels, Nor blow about on anger's wind, Nor burn with love, nor rust with morals. Folk in the far unfading city, Burning with lusts my senses are, I am torn with love and shame and pity, Be to my heart a guiding star Wise youths and maidens in the sun, With eyes that charm and lips that sing, And gentle arms that rippling run, Shed on my heart your endless spring! THE FUGITIVE Flying his hair and his eyes averse, Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. How could we clear his charms rehearse? Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. High on a down we found him last, Shy as a hare, he fled as fast; How could we clasp him or ever he passed? Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. How could we cling to his limbs that shone, Ravish his cheeks' red gonfalon, Or the wild-skin cloak that he had on? Fleet are his feet and his 

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