When I achieve the chestnut joke of dying,
When I slip through that Gate at Kensal Green,
Shall I go spoil the fantasy by prying
Behind the staging of this darling scene?
Shall I—a cast-off puppet—seek to study
The Showman who manipulates the strings,
The Hand that paints the western drop-scene ruddy,
The prosy truths of all these faery things?
Shall I—self-conscious by a glassy ocean—
Stammer strange songs amid an alien host?
Or shall I not, refusing such promotion,
Bequeath to London my contented ghost?
I will come back to my Eternal City;
Her fogs once more my countenance shall dim;
I will enliven your austere committee
With gossip gleaned among the cherubim.
By day I’ll tread again the sounding mazes,
By night I’ll track the moths about the Park;
My feet shall fall among the dusky daisies,
Nor break nor bruise a petal in the dark.
I will repeat old inexpensive orgies;
Drink nectar at the bun-shop in Shoreditch,
Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George’s,
And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.
My soundless feet shall fly among the runners
Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid,
My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners,
The fires shall glare—but I shall cast no shade.
And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent
Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot—
(Fool that he is)—and fumble with his warrant,
And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"
Mocking I’ll go, and he shall be postillion,
Until we reach the Keeper of the Door:
"H’m ... Benson ... Stella ... militant civilian ...
There’s some mistake, we’ve had this soul before...."
* * * * * *
Ah, none shall keep my soul from this its Zion;
Lost in the spaces I shall hear and bless
The splendid voice of London, like a lion
Calling its lover in the wilderness.