Classic Poem

If I go out of the door,
It will not be
To take the road to the left that leads
Past the bovine quiet of houses
Brooding over the cud of their daily content,
Even though
The tranquillity of their gardens
Is a lure that once was stronger;
Even though
From privet hedge and mottled laurel
The young green peeps,
And the daffodils
And the yellow and white and purple crocuses
Laugh from the smooth mould
Of the garden beds
To the upright golden buds of the chestnut-trees.
I shall not see
The almond blossom shaming
The soot-black boughs.

But to the right the road will lead me
To greater and greater disquiet;
Into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'buses
And the dust, the tattered paper —
The detritus of a city —
That swirls in the air behind them.
I will pass the shops where the prices
Are judged day by day by the people,
And come to the place where five roads meet
With five tram routes,
And where, amid the din
Of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'buses,
The clangorous tramcars,
The news is shouted
And soldiers gather, off duty.
Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever;
And I can make,
As each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,
No spring and no woman's beauty,
While that is burning.