Before the opening of the wrought-iron gates,
The gravel walks receive in daily dawns 
Reindentation to fresh herring-bone

Like a cavalry charging, productive loins
in parallel
Straddle baby carriages;

Three countries blacken and vanish, 
rivers run unlighted and silent, 
lamp by lamp of the city came, went, 

The farms are stinking craters in
Sheer sides under the sodden moors;
When it is not wind it is rain,

These cliffs, how glorious, Helen! We have driven 
Along this route together often enough 
Not to have missed this spot before, or given 

She shapes the moral traveller 
A sphere where she is in command, 
And on a lower level her 

The cross staggered him. At the cliff-top  
Thomas, beneath its burden, stood 
While the dulled wood 

Several eras have come to a close
In this land of extremes. In our own day 
We visit the slow process of decay 
As it moves in the sun to decompose 

           Once more
  The rain coerces memory,
  And shadows cast upon the door 

Sparrows disappear
As the shape of a wing is recognized; 
The front door, walked to