MCMXIV

Those long uneven lines / Standing as patiently / As if they were stretched outside / The Oval or Villa Park, / The crowns of hats, the sun / On moustached archaic faces / Grinning as if it were all / An August Bank Holiday lark; // And the shut shops, the bleached / Established names on the sunblinds, / The farthings and sovereigns, / And dark-clothed children at play / Called after kings and queens, / The tin advertisements / For cocoa and twist, and the pubs / Wide open all day; // And the countryside not caring: / The place-names all hazed over / With flowering grasses, and fields / Shadowing Domesday lines / Under wheat’s restless silence; / The differently-dressed servants / With tiny rooms in huge houses, / The dust behind limousines; // Never such innocence, / Never before or since, / As changed itself to past / Without a word — the men / Leaving the gardens tidy, / The thousands of marriages / Lasting a little while longer: / Never such innocence again.