At Box Hill, Surrey <br /> <br />A modern hour from London (as we spin <br />Into a silver thread the miles of space <br />Between us and our goal), there is a place <br />Apart from city traffic, dust, and din, <br />Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn. <br />Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face <br />Which made his world; and by its magic grace <br />Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin. <br />And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats <br />Wrote the last one of those immortal songs <br />(Called by the critics of his day 'mere rhymes'). <br />A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats <br />Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs, <br />There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-tavern-of-last-times-2/
