The Newer Zion

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...."

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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.