Classic Poem

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, check 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!