Cis-Occiput, The marshes and the writhing mere, The land that every man I see Knows in himself but not in me. II Upon the borders of the weald (I walk there first when I step in) Set in green wood and smiling field, The city stands, unstained of sin; White thoughts and wishes pure Walk the streets with steps demure. In its clean groves and spacious halls The quiet-eyed inhabitants Hold innocent sunny festivals And mingle in decorous dance; Things that destroy, distort, deface, Come never to that lovely place. Never could evil enter thither, It could not live in that sweet air, The shadow of an ill deed must wither And fall away to nothing there. You would say as there you stand That all was beauty in the land. 

This pit of belch and swallow,

The elements can hallow.

High in a world of wires,

Wooded with many spires.

I stand in adoration,

And gold illumination.

Shot by the waking sun,

A myriad shadows run.

The gentle suburbs quiver,

Of Thames, a holy river

By yonder towers I linger,

Its belled Byzantine finger,

Where hold wise converse daily

St. Paul's and the Old Bailey.

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