Poetry Archives

112

Where bells no more affright the morn—
Where scrabble never comes—
Where very nimble Gentlemen
Are forced to keep their rooms—

Where tired Children placid sleep
Thro’ Centuries of noon
This place is Bliss—this town is Heaven—
Please, Pater, pretty soon!

“Oh could we climb where Moses stood,
And view the Landscape o’er”
Not Father’s bells—nor Factories,
Could scare us any more!