VII WALWORTH ROAD

Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.); Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by; Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards; Come in at windows and invade small rooms To chatter archly in old women’s ears, Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts.... They make bent grandfathers recall the day They played the fool in the sun, under the sky, And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps “Than ever you get, in these degenerate times....” And then, they love to hover where maids sleep, Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes, Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips. And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls, They tinkle such sly secrets of delight That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds, These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs And memories of a kiss, in that dream world Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown, And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!... To the strong lads they whisper of the wars, Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose, In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea; Or of adventures, where the world is warm And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde— Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened— Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on.... Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee, With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up,” But get a punch in the nose from British boys, Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails, And go adventuring through the burning blue, And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin, And make an island (as the daylight fades) Which has a fierce volcano in her midst And a little white port, with clustering white houses, And pirate vessels in her anchorage.... They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams! Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes, The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge, The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on; Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.