Classic Poem

Lover of London, not a violet
Purpled at a shop-door the end of Lent,
But thought he higher than all its kind in Kent;
And if the door were carved—then better yet!
Elizabethan laughter fills his time;
He heard it echoing and made it his;
And with its smacking words for that or this,
He set to prose what others saved for rhyme.
Past cheat of years the comrades of his mood—
The quiet old men sitting in the sun;
Strict maids; gray clerks; and children fair and blest;
And that sad woman of his house and blood—
And still he hides his hurts from dearest one;
But with the whole world shares the stingless jest!