In the town
Date: 2026-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: In the town

A book of London verses

Author: Douglas Goldring

Release date: September 22, 2026 [eBook #79630]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Selwyn and Blount, 1916

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79630

Credits: Tim Miller, chenzw, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE TOWN ***

IN THE TOWN

By the same Author.

- THE LOIRE.

- WAYS OF ESCAPE.

- DREAM CITIES.

- IT’S AN ILL WIND.

- ON THE ROAD: A BOOK OF TRAVEL SONGS

IN THE TOWN

A Book of London Verses

By
DOUGLAS GOLDRING

London
SELWYN AND BLOUNT
27 Chancery Lane, W.C.
1916

Twenty of the verses in this book are now printed for the first time, a few have appeared in magazines, and the remainder are taken from an earlier volume called “Streets.”

PRINTED BY THE WESTMINSTER PRESS
411A HARROW ROAD, LONDON, W

This great grey city that bred me and mine—
Supreme, mysterious, dirty and divine—
Is made up all of contrast, light and gloom.

It has green hills and parks where flowers bloom;

And shadowed pathways where young lips are shy

And warm hands tangle while the night slips by;

Deserts of humble brick, resigned and drear;

And crowded centres, full of light and cheer;

Thronged streets where jostle theatre and hotel,

And stately terraces where rich folk dwell....

It has black alleys, and most dismal plains

Crossed by long, steady, fire-emitting trains;

Foul slums and palaces, prisons and spires

And suburbs where the jaundiced clerk expires.

But love and hope are always with us, too:

And such bright eyes, to make the sky seem blue!

All of my life I have spent up and down
Adventurously, in this unending town,
And magic things have seen at Fortune Green
And fairies loitering in a grove at Sheen;
Chelsea made crimson in the sunset’s glare;

The dawn transfiguring even Russell Square....

And I have watched, all through a summer’s day,

The brown-winged barges loaded up with hay,
And seen the heavy cargo-steamers slide
Past Woolwich Ferry, with the flowing tide;
Found joy in travel on a motor ’bus,
And glowing worlds Within the Radius!

And so, for songs, my heart must needs repeat

The cries and whispers of the London street.

CONTENTS

I
PAGE
I Villas 11
II Kingsland Road, N.E. 12
III Cherry Gardens (Rotherhithe) 14
IV Mare Street, N.E. 15
V Living-In (Brixton Rise) 16
VI The Spanish Sailor 17
VII Walworth Road 18
VIII Spaniards’ 21
IX In the Park 22
X Promenade: Leicester Square 23
XI Suburban Theatre (“A” Company) 24
II
XII Streets 27
XIII Little Houses (Hill Street) 30
XIV She-Devil (Davies Street) 31
XV Dinner Time (Sloane Street) 32
XVI Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus 33

XVII The Young Married Couple (Muswell Hill) 35

XVIII Maisonnettes (Harrow Road) 37
XIX Home 38
XX Front Doors (Bayswater) 39
XXI Dilletante (St. James’s Street) 41
XXII Merveilleuses de nos Jours (1914) 42
XXIII Mr. Hellis 43
XXIV Benevolence 44
XXV Ritz (July, 1914) 45
XXVI In a Taxi 46
XXVII The Subaltern Soliloquizes 47
XXVIII Outside Charing X. (2.35 p.m.) 48
XXIX Malise—Robes 49
III
XXX West End Lane 53
XXXI Hampstead 55
XXXII Richmond Park 59
XXXIII Trafalgar Square 60
XXXIV Lodgings 61
XXXV Escape 62
XXXVI The Quarry 63
XXXVII East Sheen 64

I

I
VILLAS

All down Acacia Road there are small bow windows

Jutting out neighbourly heads in the street,
And in each sits, framed, a quiet old woman.
These watch the couples who pass or meet,

And some have borne sons, now ageing men;

And most have seen death in their narrow house;

Heard wedding bells for their grandchildren;

Seen boys seek the bar for a last carouse;

And heard wives cry, through thin plaster walls,

And watched babies laugh in the sun, outside.

They treasure things up in their withered old hearts,

And always they sit looking out, with eyes wide.

These queer old women, they watch, as they sit

Through the whole long day, what happens beneath:

They miss not a thing. Sometimes they knit,

And sometimes dream a little, holding their breath.

1910

II
KINGSLAND ROAD, N.E.

As I went walking down the Kingsland Road

I met an old man, with a very heavy load;

He had a crooked nose, and one tooth in his head,

And as I went by him he stopped me, and said:

I’m an old, old man
With a very heavy sack—
But when I was a young ’un
I’d a heavier pack.

Now my eyes are all dim,
But my heart’s full of fun;
Oh! heavy was my heart
When my eyes were young.

I’d a cartload of trouble

All along o’ my wife.

—It was trying to be happy

Made a Hell of my life!

I’m an old, old man
With a gert heavy sack—
But when I was a young ’un
It nigh broke my back!

When I looked in his eyes I found that they were blue,

And the skin of his face it was wrinkled through and through.

He had big hairy ears, and his beard it was white:

And twittering and laughing he passed into the night.

III
CHERRY GARDENS
(Rotherhithe.)

My man fell in, when he was drunk;

They’d thrown him out o’ the “King’s Head.”

From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.

He was my man; he’s dead.

On the cold slab, a sight to see,
They’ve laid him out—poor handsome chap—
In Rotherhithe’s new mortuary.
His head should dent my lap,

But I mayn’t warm him where he lies,

Because I have no ring to show;

Yet I’ve his bruises on my eyes:

And bore his child a month ago.

IV
MARE STREET, N.E.

In Mare Street, Hackney, Sunday nights,

My Jim he’d search for souls to save:

Beneath one of them showman’s lights

He’d stand up white and brave.

“And who’s for Jesus now?” he’d call,

“And who’s for Love that’s strong?

Repent, believe: there’s Heaven for all

That turns and flees from wrong....”

I wish no harm to my poor Jim,

But God strike Lizzie dead!

’Twas cruel of her to lead the hymn,

With me laid ill, in bed.

They’re gone—last month—to Leytonstone;
Jim runs a chapel there;
And I’m left hungering here alone,
While she joins him in pray’r.

V
LIVING-IN
(Brixton Rise.)

Through the small window comes the roar

Of all the world of light outside:

It is not midnight, yet our door

Is shut on us, and we are tied.

What is he doing now—my dear?

I left him all on fire for me:

Will he be true? Oh God, I fear

He’ll buy what I would give him free!

VI
THE SPANISH SAILOR

Through lines of lights the river glides,
Bestrewn with many a green-eyed ship,
And swiftly down the slinking tides
All night the heavy steamers slip.

Bright shone the moon when he slunk down,
A-sailing to some foreign parts,
Past Greenwich and past Gravesend Town
And caring nought for broken hearts.

’Twas in July. He kissed and fled:

He stole my all and slipt to sea,

And now I wish that I was dead

—Or that his arms were crushing me.

VII
WALWORTH ROAD

Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.);
Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by;
Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between

Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards;

Come in at windows and invade small rooms

To chatter archly in old women’s ears,

Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat

And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts....

They make bent grandfathers recall the day

They played the fool in the sun, under the sky,

And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps

“Than ever you get, in these degenerate times....”

And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,

Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,

Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.

And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,

They tinkle such sly secrets of delight

That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,

These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs

And memories of a kiss, in that dream world

Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,

And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...

To the strong lads they whisper of the wars,

Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves

Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose,

In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea;
Or of adventures, where the world is warm
And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach

Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet

Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde—

Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened—

Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....

Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee,

With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up,”

But get a punch in the nose from British boys,

Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails,

And go adventuring through the burning blue,
And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin,
And make an island (as the daylight fades)
Which has a fierce volcano in her midst

And a little white port, with clustering white houses,

And pirate vessels in her anchorage....

They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams!

Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes,

The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge,

The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on;
Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be
How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.

VIII
SPANIARDS’

The moon shone withering, wild and white,
And ruddy gleamed the bars,
And far below, the city’s light
Streamed up to meet the stars.

“Look down,” ses Jim, “them streets that shine,

And look, the gaudy sky!

By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine”

—And glad enough was I.

Oh, why did blow so soft and warm

That breeze on Spaniards’ Road!

I never thought to take no harm,

Nor bear so hard a load.

1913

IX
IN THE PARK

He sighs “O Lord, this clammy fog

Which cloaks them gravely-staring trees,

It makes one shiver like a dog!”

“Harry, you are so hard to please.

“See how the stars begin to shine,
And twinkle through the fading mist;
In half an hour it will be fine,
And how they’ll laugh to see me kissed!”

“O yes, the stars stick grinning on—
But they don’t make life better fun;
They’ll grin when we are dead and gone,
They’ll grin till love and life are done;

“And we’re their blessed joke, my girl,
Who toil to snatch this moment free
From London’s endless, grinding whirl
To dream and long and love and be.”

X
PROMENADE: LEICESTER SQUARE

Like sweet princesses, stately, with soft glance,

Faint smile thrown backward and a questioning eye,

The insolent beauties capture and entrance

Pleasure’s weak worshippers, or pass them by.

Lonely among them is an alien face—

Less calm, less dignified, but no less fair—

A mouth whose corners droop with their disgrace:

O tarnished gold, and glory of despair!

XI
SUBURBAN THEATRE
(“A” Company).

Crash, boom and bang—the final chorus ends,

The applause breaks out, and now the curtain drops:

The weary violinist joins his friends,

The tenor grumbles, as his face he mops.

The audience hurries out, whistling or glum:
The chorus ladies drink, behind the scenes,
Their long-awaited beer. Ah! soon she’ll come

Through the stage door, by which the porter leans.

Soon will she come to me, her little face
Nested in furs, and she will take my arm,
And we shall hurry from this frowsy place:

O, and her heart and lips and cheeks are warm!

1909

II

XII
STREETS

Church Street wears ever a smile, from having watched bright belles

Coming home with young men, after balls, “at all hours.”

Its villas don’t mind; they say, “Go it, young swells,

We’ve been young too!” But Ebenezer Street glowers.

Chapel deacons live here, with side whiskers and pompous wives,

Who play hymns on Sundays, and deeply deplore sinful acts.

They’re convinced that their neighbours lead scandalous private lives;

—That you and I ought to be shot, “if one knew all the facts.”

Goreham Street’s sad. Here lives old Jones the poet—

He knew Swinburne and Watts, and has letters from “dear Charlie Keene.”

Loo Isaacs lives here as well, and poor Captain Jowett:

And the “Goreham Street Murder” was over at number thirteen.

(Ah! graveyard of hope, street of death and foul night,

Where the sun never peers and the days are a prelude to Hell:

—Street of “rooms” and cheap scent, and of broken-down drabs who invite

Their Bloomsbury loves to its terrible Temperance Hotel.)

Now George Street (E.C.) strikes a cheerful and strenuous note;

It is full of live men of business, of ’buses and noise;

Of Surbiton gents, very sleek, in top-hat and fur coat;

And earnest young clerks who perspire, and take classes for boys.

But Hertford Street has a calm and a gently fastidious air!

Here I shall live when I’m rich, with my wife and my car:

When we are pleased, we never shout nor ruffle our hair,

And a lift of the eyebrow will show how annoyed we are.

This is where life is lived nobly and sweetly and well:

Here are beauty, all hardly-won things, and courage and love.

Why people worship the slums and the poor so, I can never tell,

For it’s virtue and baths and good cooking go hand in glove!

XIII
LITTLE HOUSES
(Hill Street).

Little houses, though prim, have often a secret glance

That can speak to a heart outside—as one speaks to me!—

And even their close-drawn curtains seem to enhance

The charm of their sly reserve, of their mystery....

I like to walk through the Square to your quiet street,

And look at your windows—with just a suspicion of pride—

For I may go in, when I dare, and sit at your feet,

But the people who pass can’t guess what it’s like inside.

They haven’t a notion—but I see your small armchair

And your dog, by the fire, and your novel thrown on the floor;

And I know there will always be flowers when you are there,

And always a smile for me, when I open your door!

XIV
SHE-DEVIL
(Davies Street).

White arms, Love, you have, and thin fingers with glittering nails,

And the soft blue smoke curls up from your parted mouth!

The delicate rose of your cheeks never varies nor pales,

And your frocks and your furs are perfection—devourer of youth!

It is thrilling to think of your room and you, wicked, inside—

Adorable snake, with a snake’s unflickering eyes,

And an intimate smile (to share which, fools have died)

And lips soft as a girl’s and like a siren’s, wise!

Devourer of youth! You are never alone by your fire,

You have always a boy there, who thinks you a goddess, ill-used,

And adores you with passion, and brings you the gifts you desire—

And the fiercer he burns, Dear, the better he keeps you amused!

XV
DINNER TIME
(Sloane Street).

The lamp gives a softened glow that is like a caress,

And the fire gleams cosy and red in the open grate,

Warming your bosom and neck and your shimmering dress;

And the people begin to arrive, for it’s five to eight.

I’m not very near you at dinner—it wouldn’t be wise—

And nobody dreams of the things that we say, you and I,

When suddenly, both together, we lift our eyes

And agree that the wine is a triumph, and not too dry....

Fine wines and fine jewels, white linen and beautiful frocks,

Kind glances and musical laughter and delicate food!—

And my tie’s well tied, and I’m pleased with my black silk socks;

Is it earthy of me to find these good things good?

XVI
MRS. SKEFFYNGTON CALHUS

Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus has three sons killed in the war,

(But to see her brave, sweet face you would never guess it).

She has “given” some nephews as well, and cousins galore:

“And if one feels sad,” she says, “one ought to suppress it.”

She belongs to two Funds, some Committees, and several clubs

Where she states what she’s done for England, with modest pride;

And she works like a black at recruiting, outside the pubs;

And is always ready to tell “how her dear ones died.”

There were three of them—Bob, Jack and Arthur—handsome men;

So good to their mother, so courteous and brave and kind!

Well—she bred them for England! It was God’s will. Amen.

For her sorrow on earth, a reward in Heaven she would find.

But Lily (the third from the left in “The Beauty-girl’s Glide”)

Belonged to no clubs or committees, wasn’t noble at all;

And the night of Jack’s death, in the wings, she broke down and cried

Till her face was a sight and she couldn’t go on for the Ball.

She hadn’t bred him for England, nor looked for rewards “up above”;

He was all that she cared for on earth; and she railed at Fate

And called down a curse on those who had slain her love.

The “for England” touch she couldn’t appreciate.

But Lily, of course, was only a simple soul.

She lacked Mrs. Calhus’s exquisite self-control.

1915

XVII
THE YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE
(Muswell Hill).

The home of the young married couple is pleasant and clean,

They receive me together. They say “Will I please come in,”

And “not mind” some small thing (which I have not seen).

Then: “Dinner is ready now,” and “shall we begin?”

They have a small daughter, and not too much money. They say

That things must look up, by and by. They are merry and brave,

They have grey days and bright days and days of play;

And they always enjoy together the things that they have.

And often I envy my friends, as I sit and read

All alone with my books and my thoughts, without child or wife:

And I think I should like to marry very much indeed—

If only the marriage sentence weren’t for life.

XVIII
MAISONNETTES
(Harrow Road).

The houses in Windermere Street are “let off in floors,”

Which perhaps is the reason it always seems so to “swarm.”

Little groups of girls and young men gather round its front doors

And keen eyes at all windows observe who is “coming to harm.”

Everyone in the street knew at once about poor Lizzie Brown!

They saw the young chap she took up with, and “knew how ’twould be”;

And they know why the blinds of the house at the corner are down,

And who pays the second floor’s rent, at a hundred and three.

XIX
HOME

O, my dear, I have wandered afar and seen marvellous places,

And foolish light loves have consumed me and left me as dead,

(Bored stiff with their bleat, and big eyes, and their “flower-like faces”),

So now I’ve come back to be good—with a tired head....

The candle flames smile in long lines and the flowers are your choice,

And our friends are much nicer than ever we thought them before!

And now, in a lull in the talk, I can hear your voice—

And the rain outside, and the long street’s muffled roar....

XX
FRONT DOORS
(Bayswater).

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square
The streets have an inhuman air,
The houses—(six imposing floors;
Dark, formidable, fierce front doors;
Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind:
Ball-room or billiard-room behind)—
Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold,
None but the ugly and the old....

Watch, as you wander hereabout,
The people who go in and out!
Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats,
Fur coats, black trousers, gleaming spats,
Flock in procession, pompous, grand,
Or drive in motors to the Strand;
And massive women, towering high,
Dart glances from a hawklike eye,
Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze,
Then drive (to train for several teas),
Snub the companion, pat the dog,
Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.

Jerusalem no more golden is
Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis!
Her portals strike an awe profound—
“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!
Quell impropriety of tone;
Hawkers and circulars begone”—
For here the ruling race reside
And guard our pledges and their pride.
Her doors are sour: they never smile,
But icily stare for mile on mile—
Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard:
Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

XXI
DILLETANTE
(St. James’s Street).

Mr. Reginald Hyphen is terribly “one of us,”

He was born with a mouth just made for a silver spoon,

(So the Butler locks up the plate when he comes to dine.)

The thought of the Middle Classes makes him swoon,

And he never will dance unless he is sure of the wine—

And O, it was such an affair, when he took a ’bus!

And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart,

He thinks a great deal and has a devotion to Art.

He has read some Meredith too—“Rather neat in its way”

And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.”

XXII
MERVEILLEUSES DE NOS JOURS
(1914)

“We will now call on Alberic Morphine to give us a reading”....

The rows of young women look up; their eyes glisten; they shiver

With the kind of emotion that’s really very misleading.

All have fine eyes, yellow faces, vile clothes and a liver.

They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays;

Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan;

They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays;

And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man.

XXIII
MR. HELLIS

Mr. Hellis (the Thinker) reviews with the pious elation

Of one who’s performing a duty that’s quite unsought.

He likes to talk of “we men of the younger generation,”

And belongs to a club called the Leaders of Modern Thought.

As an “earnest layman” his responsibility is intense,

For he feels that “we” and the “Woman of the Future” alone keep alight

The New Morality’s lamp. His influence

In his powerful critical organ is for what’s right.

For instruction to youth in the methods of sound composition,

He has thoughtfully published some trifles—a play in two scenes,

Church History, some verse, and an essay on Ibsen’s position

Re Woman (her place), which explains what the gentleman means.

XXIV
BENEVOLENCE

Mrs. Murgatroyd Martin thinks only of doing good:

That is all that she lives for—to succour the poor, poor, poor.

She wants them to lead nobler lives (that is understood):

To the world of Culture she opens them wide a door.

She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde;

Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas;

Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child:

Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas.

And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights,

She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind,

And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fights

And black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!”

XXV
RITZ
(July, 1914).

White teeth, neat black moustache and lovely eyes—

Face bronzed and beautiful, like a young god—

Tired Rollo is the dreaming school girl’s prize.

He leans against the wall, perhaps will dance
If they ask very nicely: sweet young things!
He’s “an observer,” and he can’t conceal

He’s frightfully bored with all this sort of crowd.

He prefers artists, men of genius;

He has a soul above the idle rich—

“A looker-on, you know, at the world’s game.”

Rude persons laugh. Adonis, rather hot,

Twirls the ineffable moustache and smiles.

—He is so much that other men are not!

1914

XXVI
IN A TAXI

Come, give your hands to me, and lean
Your dear bright head against my coat.
Let me tear loose the furs that screen
The ivory column of your throat

And yield your hungry lips to mine,
You passionate child! You cling so tight,
The blood goes to my head like wine,
As we race, breathless, through the night.

How the time flies! We’re nearly there.

Now grow sedate and proud once more—

Put back your furs, bind up your hair,

But pause, awhile, outside your door.

No one can hear! So now, goodbye!

Darling, to crush you, in the gloom,

With kisses, would be ecstasy ...

“Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

1908

XXVII
THE SUBALTERN SOLILOQUIZES

In this cold ditch, with frozen feet
And stomach turned by filth and stink,
If one can only dream, it’s sweet
To lose oneself and think ... and think.

By gad, but they were fun, those days
—They seem a thousand years ago—
When we were setting town ablaze

And danced, and wenched, and thought things slow!

Those kisses in the warm June nights,
And O! those dawns by Prince’s gate—
Champagne and sunshine, loves and fights—
Who guessed that they would end in “hate?”

Well, now they’re gone, I’m only glad

I made things jolly, while I could!

To face the music ain’t so bad

If, while you had it, life was good.

1915

XXVIII
OUTSIDE CHARING X.
(2.35 p.m.).

Of course she’s there to see him off—

Trust her for that! Tears in her eyes, enough to be becoming,

The latest furs, then sympathy, for tea!

And if he’s hit, my own, she’ll hear it first.

She’ll be the one to fly to France,
To bore the Doctor and the Nurse
And drive him mad—if he still lives.

But I, who love him so my heart grows faint,

Who’d gladly bleed to death to save him pain,

Must wait and read the news in some blurred list....

Then, ever the grinning mask, day in, day out!

While she, hard as a stone,
Wears stylish black and tells her lover’s son
How “Father died a hero, in the War!”

1915

XXIX
MALISE—ROBES

The address is good—10A North Molton Street—
I’m clever at the trade, and doing well;
Haven’t a single cause for discontent!

Wilfrid is pleased: I’m safe: why mourn (you say)

The old days when I loved him, and was poor?
Ah, why! Fool, fool—to ask one that!
I love him still, I think. Sometimes he comes
And takes me off to Paris for a week;
Flatters himself I’m “doing well at last”;

That he’s not brought me harm; but, rather, good.

It ought to be enough! And yet, and yet—

You see I’m thirty-five, and I’ve no child....

True, I’ve the shares in “Malise Limited,”

And that’s worth fifteen hundred solid pounds a year....

I’ll marry my Paris buyer. He’s a good sort:

And we’ll soon be very rich.... But I’m so tired.

I wish he’d only kept me in a flat

Somewhere in Maida Vale; come once a week

And let me cook the dinner.... Votes! Good God,

The way to manage women is the Turk’s....

But Wilfred’s such a little gentleman! He can’t forget

He didn’t find me in the streets, but in the saddle

—— years, years ago! out with the Quorn.

III

XXX
WEST END LANE

Off through the dripping, moonless night,
Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,
They trace their footsteps by the light
Of love that fills their weary eyes.

“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place,
With far less joy in it than tears,
To set my lips to your warm face
Is worth a sight of dismal years!”

“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,”
She whispers softly.... “See, the rain
Has stopped, the clouds are broken through,
The stars are shining clear again!”

Pausing, they gaze across the Heath
Submerged in fog—a dim hush’d lake
Wherein the wretched might seek death,
And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.

Then clasping hands, and touching lips,
They dream beneath great sombre trees,
Whence large and solemn-falling drips
Are shaken by the restless breeze.

“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear,

As kisses in the quiet night:

Lean close, and let me hold you near,

Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!

“Why should we wait, so cold and wise?

We’re only human, Nell, we two;

And even if love fades and dies—

I shall remember this: won’t you?”

XXXI
HAMPSTEAD

i

Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill!

(All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls

And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still).

O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!

Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!

Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.

Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,

Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!

ii

I love those small old houses, with bright front doors,

And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:

Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores!)

And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.

Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit,

In autumn and winter. In summer a rose

Climbs in through the open window, caressing it;

And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.

iii

Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes,

Bloom all to beauty of sweet look and word.

Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms

Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.

iv

Do you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the right

When you reach the top, which climb to a walk

Shaded by elm-trees of great girth and height;

And there are seats there, where lovers talk.

And all in front is a valley, wide and deep—

In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs:

In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep,

Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....

v

It rained, the wet poured from the leaves;
They by the churchyard; entered in
And sheltered underneath the eaves;
So sweetly close: yet firm her chin.

Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood;

And she—half frightened and half kind—
Whispered the warning words “be good,”
But left his venturous arm entwined.

When the shower stopped his hopes sank low,

—Farewell kind walls and darkling spire!

They walked forlornly down Church Row;

Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire.

Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green—

There parted, by a watery moon.

His heart went throbbing “Might have been,”

But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”

vi

At Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow light

Pour from the bar upon a preacher’s head

Who howls unheeded warnings to the night:

Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed.

Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro
And search the passing faces—some find mates;
Against the railings leans a giggling row;

An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.

The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam;

Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips,

While couples meet and glance, and leave the stream,

And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.

vii

So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue

You may spy cities, dim in the dim sky,

Stretching strange roadways to the inner view.

See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....

XXXII
RICHMOND PARK

i

What do I want with your little, shrinking love?

See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above,

I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart, that cry

And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky!

You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses,

I will fly off and forget....

Ah!

ii

How can you tell? you say—your heart cries “wait”:

You will not answer now, it grows so late—

And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!

Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word!

Listen a little while—you turn away.

What? Your head droops.... You are frightened!

Run in and hide....

XXXIII
TRAFALGAR SQUARE

Have you not seen, emerging from the Strand

On warm-breathed evenings when the sun has set,

How, suddenly, you come on fairyland,

And sly Romance has snared you in her net?

How gay those trooping girls are—eyes how bright—

Who hurry across the crowded Square to meet

The boys who wait them, in the lingering light:

How sweet to hear their little tapping feet!

They have no time to watch the sky above,

For all the world, to them, is life and love.

Only the passionate dreamer takes delight

In the great pageant of the approaching night,

Who, striving, caged, to burst his spirit’s bars,

Laughs at the flushed green sky, begemmed with stars.

XXXIV
LODGINGS

As I climb these musty stairs,
To my garret near the roof—
Past the ladies singing airs
From the latest Opéra-bouffe—
I can see her little feet
Twinkling in the brilliant light,
I can hear the words so sweet
That said for my delight,
When the whirling dance was over
And she joined me in the night!

As I climb these hard-worn stairs
To my garret near the roof,
All her pretty, subtle airs,
As she kept me half-aloof,
Fill my thoughts and banish cares;
I can hear her soft reproof
When I kissed her unawares,
As I climb these weary stairs
To my garret near the roof.

XXXV
ESCAPE

The empty months fly past! Let us start, you and I,

Down the road that stretches its long white line to the sky

And laughs to think of the broad hills and the sea

It can bring to you and me!
O my love, let us leave this little street
That leads not anywhere;

With its futile little houses, its terrible folk—

Let us dare to be free!

And out in the world—in the hush of the wood—

Under the careless heaven let us make our bed,

Where trees are kind overhead,

And bright stars bend to look....

XXXVI
THE QUARRY

All down that dismal villa’d street,
With ugly green front-doors,
I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feet
And wonder which was yours!

And when the bedroom candles shone
And night fell deep and dark,
The road would fade, and I’d press on
Across some faery park.

And you before me, you so near!

—Elusive, ’mid the trees.

I the bold horseman, you the deer—

What nights, what dreams were these!

Must Love and Beauty always fly

The eager arms of men?

Oh, I shall hunt you till I die,

And when I live again!

XXXVII
EAST SHEEN

So here’s your home! Why, something of you flashes

Still, through the rain and mist.

The houses new and pink—green doors, green window-sashes—

Fade in the thought that here it was we kissed,

Under that puny tree! (The street lamp’s glare

Mocked at the ageless moon—the same whose beams

Laid all the loveliness of Helen bare
And shone on Cleopatra’s hungry dreams,
And made a road of silver down old Nile,
Maddening her lovers to their lovely end,

Who, having loved her, slew them with a smile,

Proud to have looked on what you showed them, friend....)

Now from the little street the moon is fled,

Covering her face with vails of trailing cloud.

All’s mist and rain—but you awake in bed,

I by your door, and two hearts beating loud!

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page 22: missing indentation on line 4 restored.

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Table of Contents

- IN THE TOWN
- CONTENTS
- I
- I VILLAS
- II KINGSLAND ROAD, N.E.
- III CHERRY GARDENS (Rotherhithe.)
- IV MARE STREET, N.E.
- V LIVING-IN (Brixton Rise.)
- VI THE SPANISH SAILOR
- VII WALWORTH ROAD
- VIII SPANIARDS’
- IX IN THE PARK
- X PROMENADE: LEICESTER SQUARE
- XI SUBURBAN THEATRE (“A” Company).
- II
- XII STREETS
- XIII LITTLE HOUSES (Hill Street).
- XIV SHE-DEVIL (Davies Street).
- XV DINNER TIME (Sloane Street).
- XVI MRS. SKEFFYNGTON CALHUS

- XVII THE YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE (Muswell Hill).

- XVIII MAISONNETTES (Harrow Road).
- XIX HOME
- XX FRONT DOORS (Bayswater).
- XXI DILLETANTE (St. James’s Street).
- XXII MERVEILLEUSES DE NOS JOURS (1914)
- XXIII MR. HELLIS
- XXIV BENEVOLENCE
- XXV RITZ (July, 1914).
- XXVI IN A TAXI
- XXVII THE SUBALTERN SOLILOQUIZES
- XXVIII OUTSIDE CHARING X. (2.35 p.m.).
- XXIX MALISE—ROBES
- III
- XXX WEST END LANE

- XXXI HAMPSTEAD

- i
- ii
- iii
- iv
- v
- vi
- vii

- XXXII RICHMOND PARK

- i

- ii

- XXXIII TRAFALGAR SQUARE
- XXXIV LODGINGS
- XXXV ESCAPE
- XXXVI THE QUARRY
- XXXVII EAST SHEEN
- TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE