In Willesden Churchyard

Come walk with me, my love, to Neasden Lane.

The chemicals from various factories

Have bitten deep into the Portland stone

And streaked the white Carrara of the graves

Of many a Pooter and his Caroline,

Long laid to rest among these dripping trees;

And that small heap of fast-decaying flowers

Marks Lupin Pooter lately gathered in;

And this, my love, is Laura Seymour’s grave—

‘So long the loyal counsellor and friend’

Of that Charles Reade whose coffin lies with hers.

Was she his mistress? Did he visit her

When coming down from Oxford by the coach?

Alighting at the turnpike, did he walk

These elmy lanes of Middlesex and climb

A stile or two across the dairy farms

Over to Harlesden at the wicket gate?

Then the soft rigours of his Fellowship

Were tenderly relaxed. The sun would send

Last golden streaks of mild October light

On tarred and weather-boarded barn and shed.

Blue bonfire smoke would hang among the trees;

And in the little stucco hermitage

Did Laura gently stroke her lover’s head?

And did her Charles look up into her eyes

For loyal counsel there? I do not know.

Doubtless some pedant for his Ph.D.

Has ascertained the facts, or I myself

Might find them in the public libraries.

I only know that as we see her grave

My flesh, to dissolution nearer now

Than yours, which is so milky white and soft,

Frightens me, though the Blessed Sacrament

Not ten yards off in Willesden parish church

Glows with the present immanence of God.