JIMSON lives in a new
Small house where the view is shrouded
With hideous hoardings, a view
That is every year more crowded.
Every year he is vexed
With some new noise as a neighbour;
The tramlines are coming next
And the street is noisy with labour.
But one thing he sees afar,
From a window over his back-door,
Is a wood as wild as a star,
On a hill untouched by contractor.
Thither at times, forlorn,
From the clamour of things suburban
He turns, as the Arab at dawn
To Mecca inclines his turban.
And this is the curious prayer
That he prays when his heart sickens,
“Oh fox come down from your lair
And steal our chickens.”