En l'an trentiesme de mon aage
        Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beues...

Pipit sate upright in her chair
        Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
        Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
        Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
        An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
        For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
         And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven
        For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
We two shall lie together, lapt
        In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,
        Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
        Than Pipit's experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
        Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
        Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

. . . . . .

But where is the penny world I bought
        To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
        From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

        Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
        Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s