The imminent sense of doom still remains:
The rapacious battle has not begun
Although single rag of time has been won
But thanks not least to many other's pains.
That instant not of intermediate gains:
Like every second of the temp'rate nun
Add together 'till piety is won,
As like with virgin birth Minerva reigns.
The mill of life will never grind me down:
My iron mind is not cast; it is wrought:
Sealed strong with winter's ice cold arctic blast.
I have heard the mermaids sing; seen them frown
In 'splendent oceans as might well they ought:
No rule states future should resemble past.

anonymous

Apologies for cross posting but rec.arts.poems no longer seems to be
for the posting of poems.

wrote in message
ups.com...

Apologies for cross posting but rec.arts.poems no longer seems to be
for the posting of poems.

uk.transport.london never has been.

*plonk*

Ian

"Ian F." wrote in message
...
wrote in message
ups.com...

Apologies for cross posting but rec.arts.poems no longer seems to be
for the posting of poems.

uk.transport.london never has been.

*plonk*

"Rumbling under blackened girders, Midland, bound for Cricklewood,
Puffed its sulphur to the sunset where that Land of Laundries stood.

Rumble under, thunder over, train and tram alternate go,
Shake the floor and smudge the ledger, Charrington, Sells, Dale and Co,
Nuts and nuggets in the window, trucks along the lines below.

When the Bon Marché was shuttered, when the feet were hot and tired,
Outside Charrington's we waited, by the "STOP HERE IF REQUIRED";
Launched aboard the shopping basket, sat precipitately down,
Rocked past Zwanziger the Baker's, and the terrace blackish brown,
And the Anglo, Anglo-Norman Parish Church of Kentish Town,
Till the tram went over thirty, sighting terminus again,
Past municipal lawn tennis and the bobble-hanging plane.
Soft the light suburban evening caught our ashlar-speckled spire,
Eighteen-sixty Early English, as the mighty elms retire
Either side of Brookfield Mansions flashing fine French-window fire.

Oh the after tram-ride quiet, when we heard, a mile beyond,
Silver music from the bandstand, barking dogs by Highgate Pond.
Up the hill where stucco houses in Virginia creeper drown;
And my childish wave of pity, seeing children carrying down
Sheaves of drooping dandelions to the courts of Kentish Town."

Parliament Hill Fields - John Betjeman.

"DVH" wrote in message
...

"Rumbling under blackened girders, Midland, bound for Cricklewood,
Puffed its sulphur to the sunset where that Land of Laundries stood.
.........

That's different! ;-)

Ian

In article ,
"Ian F." wrote:

uk.transport.london never has been.

Didn't you see poems on the tube? I think it was only a few years ago
there were poems in some of the ad strips in the trains.

E.

On Sep 22, 6:28 am, eastender wrote:
In article ,
"Ian F." wrote:

uk.transport.london never has been.

Didn't you see poems on the tube? I think it was only a few years ago
there were poems in some of the ad strips in the trains.

E.

Karaiki a whole row of Brits...!!!

A change from unkle Sams...
a darned good change, actually...

wrote in message ups.com...
The imminent sense of doom still remains:
The rapacious battle has not begun
Although single rag of time has been won
But thanks not least to many other's pains.
That instant not of intermediate gains:
Like every second of the temp'rate nun
Add together 'till piety is won,
As like with virgin birth Minerva reigns.
The mill of life will never grind me down:
My iron mind is not cast; it is wrought:
Sealed strong with winter's ice cold arctic blast.
I have heard the mermaids sing; seen them frown
In 'splendent oceans as might well they ought:
No rule states future should resemble past.

anonymous

Apologies for cross posting but rec.arts.poems no longer seems to be
for the posting of poems.

wrote:
The imminent sense of doom still remains:
The rapacious battle has not begun
Although single rag of time has been won
But thanks not least to many other's pains.
That instant not of intermediate gains:
Like every second of the temp'rate nun
Add together 'till piety is won,
As like with virgin birth Minerva reigns.
The mill of life will never grind me down:
My iron mind is not cast; it is wrought:
Sealed strong with winter's ice cold arctic blast.
I have heard the mermaids sing; seen them frown
In 'splendent oceans as might well they ought:
No rule states future should resemble past.

Is the traffic circular discussing de-icing trains already?

wrote in message ups.com...
The imminent sense of doom still remains:
The rapacious battle has not begun
Although single rag of time has been won
But thanks not least to many other's pains.
That instant not of intermediate gains:
Like every second of the temp'rate nun
Add together 'till piety is won,
As like with virgin birth Minerva reigns.
The mill of life will never grind me down:
My iron mind is not cast; it is wrought:
Sealed strong with winter's ice cold arctic blast.
I have heard the mermaids sing; seen them frown
In 'splendent oceans as might well they ought:
No rule states future should resemble past.

anonymous

Apologies for cross posting but rec.arts.poems no longer seems to be
for the posting of poems.

Too many dimmest flume, neck-up the cranes...

--
AJ http://Here.Nu
http://LiveVideo.com/AJinn
http://Art.Here.Nu

In message , DVH
writes
Parliament Hill Fields - John Betjeman.

Well, if we're in *that* mode.......

"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 a few surviving hedges
Keep alive our lost Elysium - rural Middlesex again.

Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly,
Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green
Hiding hair which, Friday nightly,
Delicately drowns in Dreen;
Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer,
Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa,
Gains the garden - father’s hobby -
Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby,
Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen.

Gentle Brent, I used to know you
Wandering Wembley-wards at will,
Now what change your waters show you
In the meadowlands you fill!
Recollect the elm-trees misty
And the footpaths climbing twisty
Under cedar-shaded palings,
Low laburnum-leaned-on railings
Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill.

Parish of enormous hayfields
Perivale stood all alone,
And from Greenford scent of mayfields
Most enticingly was blown
Over market gardens tidy,
Taverns for the bona fide,
Cockney singers, cockney shooters,
Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters,
Long in Kelsal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone."

--
Ian Jelf, MITG
Birmingham, UK

Registered Blue Badge Tourist Guide for London and the Heart of England
http://www.bluebadge.demon.co.uk