WHEN into the town I go, Under sad and leaden skies I see hoardings, row on row, Flare in pink and yellow dyes. Glittering promises they bear: Food to gorge and drink to swill; Spectacles of pleasure rare, Cures for every mortal ill. 'Tis man's paradise of hope Mocking starving winter's night; Filling wretched souls who grope, With a gorgeous lie of might! Poet, do not vainly dream Of a past forgot for long, Let the wonderful hoardings stream In their splendour through your song. Fling away the beautiful, Withered flower of ancient birth: See! It springs in blossom full, Fresh from out the teeming earth! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 2. HER HANDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH ON A DEAD CHILD by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS by THOMAS CAREW SUPPLICATION by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER JR. IMAGES: 6 by RICHARD ALDINGTON |