‘ THE TAVERN OF LAST TIMES’

A modern hour from London ( as we spin

Into a silver thread the miles of space

Between us and our goal ), there is a place

Apart from city traffic, dust, and din,

Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn.

Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face

Which made his world; and by its magic grace

Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin.

And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats

Wrote the last one of those immortal songs

( Called by the critics of his day‘ mere rhymes’ ).

A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats

Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs,

There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.