Part 3

Of Two Dwellings

At the lower end of Limehouse Causeway Is a house where girls surrender their bodies To the pleasures of base-minded and unpolished men, In return for shillings. And on the walls about this house Blossoms at summer the wild white rose.

In a tiny room at the top of a tenement Lives a white maid of surpassing virtue, Gentle in manner and quiet and dutiful, Combing her golden curls each morning Before a window that looks out to hell; That looks upon cesspools of mud, and mounds of refuse and the offal of the shops.

Concerning English Gambling

One morning, at the season of Clear Weather, As I sat alone in my Tea-House of the Refined White Lily, A stranger of affable address approached me, And showed me, with a multitude of argument, To what advantage I should come Were I to place the whole of my substance with him, Even to my shirt, As a token of my faith in Ice Cream Cornet for the Lincolnshire.

And because I would not do so, He withdrew himself from me as from one of mean birth and behaviour, Reviling me with the name of "No-Sport," And other characters of opprobrium.

But this person told him That he carried always on written leaves The words of his august father, Concerning horses and women, and the wind in the hills and the hooting of owls.

He did not tell him that he knew full well That Ice Cream Cornet was a non-starter for the Lincolnshire.

Of Politicians

Upon a time the amiable Bill Hawkins Married a fair wife, demure and of chaste repute, Keeping closely from her, however, Any knowledge of the manner of man he had been.

Upon the nuptial night, Awaking and finding himself couched with a woman, As had happened on divers occasions, He arose, and dressed and departed, Leaving at the couch's side four goodly coins.

But in the street, Remembering the occasion and his present estate of marriage, He returned with a haste of no-dignity, Filled with emotions of an entirely disturbing nature, Fear that his wife should discover his absence And place evil construction upon it, Being uppermost.

Entering stealthily, then, with the toes of the leopard, With intention of quickly disrobing, And rejoining the forsaken bride, He perceived her sitting erect on the couch, Biting shrewdly, with a distressing air of experience, At one of the coins.

Even so it is when Big Politician meets Little Politician.

Of the Great White War

During the years when the white men fought each other, I observed how the aged cried aloud in public places Of honour and chivalry, and the duty of the young; And how the young ceased doing the pleasant things of youth, And became suddenly old, And marched away to defend the aged.

And I observed how the aged Became suddenly young; And mouthed fair phrases one to the other upon the Supreme Sacrifice, And turned to their account-books, murmuring gravely: Business as Usual; And brought out bottles of wine and drank the health Of the young men they had sent out to die for them.

At the Time of Clear Weather

In the agreeable public gardens of Poplar The bushes are bright with buds, For this is the season of Clear Weather. There blossom the quiet flowers of this country: The timid lilac, The unassuming hawthorn, The dignified chestnut, And the girlish laburnum; And the mandarin of them all is the rhododendron.

In the untilled field of my heart Many simple buds are bursting. There is a little bush of kindliness towards all men. There is a slender tree of forgiveness for all wrongs. There is a humble growth of repentance for past sins. And around the field is a thick hedge of thankfulness.

And Ho! in the midst of all Stands the tree of a hundred boughs Laden with the sweetest of all buds Which are breaking to flower under the sun of a maiden's eyes.

Parent and Child

Often of an evening I take the air And linger on the bridge by the Isle of Dogs, And sometimes see The swan-like shape of the ship that brought me hither. Often since then that ship has gone To the land from which it brought me; And on each voyage my heart accompanies it.

Should I some day in person journey with it, My honourable father would welcome his little son. He would not see this worn and tattered one, This lean and sorrowful son of the waterside. He would not see this parchment face, This figure without lustre. He would see his little son who left him long ago; For love would brush away the husk of years, And leave a little child.

Of Worship and Conduct

At the corner of the Causeway on every seventh evening Gathers the band of Salvation Army, Making big noise of Washed-in-Blood-of-Lamb.

At temple in East India Dock Road Men gather in white clothes, and sing, And march with candles and pray to Lady.

At shop in Pennyfields, many times a day, This person pays respect to Big Man Joss, And burns to him prayer-papers and punk-sticks.