Places
Nobody says: Ah, that is the placeWhere chanced, in the hollow of years ago,What none of the Three Towns cared to know—The birth of a little girl of grace—The sweetest the house saw, first or last;Yet it was soOn that day long past.
Nobody thinks: There, there she layIn a room by the Hoe, like the bud of a flower,And listened, just after the bedtime hour,To the stammering chimes that used to playThe quaint Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth tuneIn Saint Andrew’s towerNight, morn, and noon.
Nobody calls to mind that hereUpon Boterel Hill, where the carters skid,With cheeks whose airy flush outbidFresh fruit in bloom, and free of fear,She cantered down, as if she must fall(Though she never did),To the charm of all.
Nay: one there is to whom these things,That nobody else’s mind calls back,Have a savour that scenes in being lack,And a presence more than the actual brings;To whom to-day is beneaped and stale,And its urgent clackBut a vapid tale.
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