The stage doors of London
call out under quarried skies,
calling for the warm winds of home.
Scented sighs fall from penniless gods
And hang heavy in powdered air.
How many other silken jades
will feel your embrace of
woven cloth and iron?
Trailing ribbons pour the past
out upon my shoulder, eyes of
black cardamom smoulder with ire.
These beautiful sons will wash
away their lives to the choirs of Waterloo.
Lift me out of this cold life,
lift me from sleeping spires to rest.
This crown casts a longer shadow
on tired boards and verses old,
But beneath sylvan boughs, I beg you,
Let me rest my head.