How To Get On In Society
Phone for the fish knives, Norman As cook is a little unnerved; You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes And I must have things daintily served. Are the requisites all in the toilet? The frills
Middlesex
Gaily into Ruislip Gardens Runs the red electric train, With a thousand Ta’s and Pardon’s Daintily alights Elaine; Hurries down the concrete station With a frown of concentration, Out into the outskirt’s edges Where
Christmas
The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake
An Edwardian Sunday, Broomhill, Sheffield
High dormers are rising So sharp and surprising, And ponticum edges The driveways of gravel; Stone houses from ledges Look down on ravines. The vision can travel From gable to gable, Italianate mansion And
Slough
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn’t fit for humans now, There isn’t grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air – conditioned, bright
Business Girls
From the geyser ventilators Autumn winds are blowing down On a thousand business women Having baths in Camden Town Waste pipes chuckle into runnels, Steam’s escaping here and there, Morning trains through Camden cutting
Cornish Cliffs
Those moments, tasted once and never done, Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun. A far-off blow-hole booming like a gun- The seagulls plane and circle out of sight Below this thirsty, thrift-encrusted
Back From Australia
Cocooned in Time, at this inhuman height, The packaged food tastes neutrally of clay, We never seem to catch the running day But travel on in everlasting night With all the chic accoutrements of
Executive
I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner; I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm’s Cortina. In every roadside hostelry from here to Burgess Hill The maоtres d’hфtel
Ireland With Emily
Bells are booming down the bohreens, White the mist along the grass, Now the Julias, Maeves and Maureens Move between the fields to Mass. Twisted trees of small green apple Guard the decent whitewashed
A Subaltern's Love Song
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun, What strenuous singles we played after tea, We in the tournament – you against me! Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of
Sun and Fun
I walked into the night-club in the morning; There was kummel on the handle of the door. The ashtrays were unemptied. The cleaning unattempted, And a squashed tomato sandwich on the floor. I pulled
Lenten Thoughts of a High Anglican
Isn’t she lovely, “the Mistress”? With her wide-apart grey-green eyes, The droop of her lips and, when she smiles, Her glance of amused surprise? How nonchalantly she wears her clothes, How expensive they are
Trebetherick
We used to picnic where the thrift Grew deep and tufted to the edge; We saw the yellow foam flakes drift In trembling sponges on the ledge Below us, till the wind would lift
In Westminster Abbey
Let me take this other glove off As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England’s statesmen lie, Listen to a lady’s cry. Gracious