I Ought To Warn You That My

What The Londoner Sees In His Mind's Eye Is That Cluster Of Towers And Pinnacles Seen From Pentonville Hill And Outlined Against A Foggy Sunset, And The Great Arc Of Barlow's Train Shed Gaping To Devour Incoming Engines, And The Sudden Burst Of Exuberant Gothic Of The Hotel Seen From Gloomy Judd Street.

And London Shops On Christmas Eve Are Strung With Silver Bells And Flowers As Hurrying Clerks The City Leave To Pigeon-haunted Classic Towers, And Marbled Clouds Go Scudding By The Many-steepled London Sky

I Have A Vision Of The Future, Chum. The Workers Flats In Fields Of Soya Beans Tower Up Like Silver Pencils, Score On Score.

And Now, Dear Lord, I Cannot Wait Because I Have A Luncheon Date.

And Behind Their Frail Partitions Business Women Lie And Soak, Seeing Through The Draughty Skylight Flying Clouds And Railway Smoke. Rest You There, Poor Unbelov'd Ones, Lap Your Loneliness In Heat, All Too Soon The Tiny Breakfast, Trolley-bus And Windy Street!