I Am Still Reeling With

Hymn Tunes Are The Nearest We've Got To English Folk Music.

What The Londoner Sees In His Mind's Eye Is That Cluster Of Towers And Pinnacles Seen From Pentonville Hill And Outlined Against A Foggy Sunset, And The Great Arc Of Barlow's Train Shed Gaping To Devour Incoming Engines, And The Sudden Burst Of Exuberant Gothic Of The Hotel Seen From Gloomy Judd Street.

And Behind Their Frail Partitions Business Women Lie And Soak, Seeing Through The Draughty Skylight Flying Clouds And Railway Smoke. Rest You There, Poor Unbelov'd Ones, Lap Your Loneliness In Heat, All Too Soon The Tiny Breakfast, Trolley-bus And Windy Street!

People's Backyards Are Much More Interesting Than Their Front Gardens, And Houses That Back On To Railways Are Public Benefactors.

I Have A Vision Of The Future, Chum. The Workers Flats In Fields Of Soya Beans Tower Up Like Silver Pencils, Score On Score.