When I achieve the chestnut joke of dying, When I slip through that Gate at Kensal Green, Shall I go spoil the fantasy by prying Behind the staging of this darling scene?
Shall I — a cast-off puppet — seek to study The Showman who manipulates the strings, The Hand that paints the western drop-scene ruddy, The prosy truths of all these faery things?
Shall I — self-conscious by a glassy ocean — Stammer strange songs amid an alien host? Or shall I not, refusing such promotion, Bequeath to London my contented ghost?
I will come back to my Eternal City; Her fogs once more my countenance shall dim; I will enliven your austere committee With gossip gleaned among the cherubim.
By day I'll tread again the sounding mazes, By night I'll track the moths about the Park; My feet shall fall among the dusky daisies, Nor break nor bruise a petal in the dark.
I will repeat old inexpensive orgies; Drink nectar at the bun-shop in Shoreditch, Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George's, And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.
My soundless feet shall fly among the runners Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid, My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners, The fires shall glare — but I shall cast no shade.
And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot — ( 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.
Cookies on Poetry Cove