XX FRONT DOORS (Bayswater).

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square The streets have an inhuman air, The houses—(six imposing floors; Dark, formidable, fierce front doors; Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind: Ball-room or billiard-room behind)— Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold, None but the ugly and the old.... Watch, as you wander hereabout, The people who go in and out! Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats, Fur coats, black trousers, gleaming spats, Flock in procession, pompous, grand, Or drive in motors to the Strand; And massive women, towering high, Dart glances from a hawklike eye, Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze, Then drive (to train for several teas), Snub the companion, pat the dog, Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog. Jerusalem no more golden is Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis! Her portals strike an awe profound— “Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground! Quell impropriety of tone; Hawkers and circulars begone”— For here the ruling race reside And guard our pledges and their pride. Her doors are sour: they never smile, But icily stare for mile on mile— Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard: Fastened securely, bolted, barred!