BRITISH MUSEUM. 1914.

The perfect presence of fine stone
Bare pure and calm the strong shafts rise
Rain-scored, alone.

As in their long ranks they fulfill
All harmony, the great roof broods
Expression of our will.

The City of the Violet Crown
Bears you in marble lifted up
In London Town

Strange peoples mount and slip you through
Dear columns, faintly pours the sun
But their is blue

Rain-filled and high and tremulous
Behind you still and the birds wheel
The light of us.
O London storm, Athenian gold,
We men pass up the stairs we build
And grow not old.