Is this the Seine? And am I altogether wrong About the brain, Dreaming I hear the British tongue?
Dear Heaven! what a rhyme! And yet‘ tis all as good As some that I have fashioned in my time, Like bud and wood;
And on the other hand you could n't have a more precise or neater Metre. Is this, I ask, the Seine? And yonder sylvan lane,
Is it the Bois? Ma foi! Comme elle est chic, my Paris, my grisette! Yet may I not forget
That London still remains the missus Of this Narcissus. No, no!‘ tis not the Seine! It is the artificial mere
That permeates St. James's Park. The air is bosom-shaped and clear; And, Himmel! do I hear the lark, The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark?
Even now, I prithee, Hark Him hammer On Heaven's harmonious stithy,
Dew-drunken — like my grammar! And O the trees! Beneath their shade the hairless coot Waddles at ease,
Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak; Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek Against their blind And hoary rind,
Observing how the sap Comes humming upwards from the tap- Root! Thrice happy, hairless coot!
And O the sun! See, see, he shakes His big red hands at me in wanton fun! A glorious image that! it might be Blake's;
As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere, When heaping praise On this exceptionally happy phrase, Although I made it up myself.
But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair, Each being rather like an artless woodland elf. And O the stars! I cannot say I see a star just now,
Not at this time of day; But anyhow The stars are all my brothers; ( This verse is shorter than the others ).
O Constitution Hill! ( This verse is shorter still ). Ah! London, London in the Spring! You are, you know you are,
So full of curious sights, Especially by nights. From gilded bar to gilded bar Youth goes his giddy whirl,
His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall, His arm fulfilled of girl! I frankly call That last effect a perfect pearl!
I know it's Not given to many poets To frame so fair a thing As this of mine, of Spring.
Indeed, the world grows Lilliput All but A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead, Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead!
And they, with Laureates dead, look down On smaller fry unworthy of the crown, Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise And bravely think to brush the skies.
Great is advertisement with little men! Moi, qui vous parle, L - G-ll — nn -, Have told them so; I ought to know!
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