Dear Mary, <br /> Yes, it will be bliss <br />To go with you by train to Diss, <br />Your walking shoes upon your feet; <br />We'll meet, my sweet, at Liverpool Street. <br />That levellers we may be reckoned <br />Perhaps we'd better travel second; <br />Or, lest reporters on us burst, <br />Perhaps we'd better travel first. <br />Above the chimney-pots we'll go <br />Through Stepney, Stratford-atte-Bow <br />And out to where the Essex marsh <br />Is filled with houses new and harsh <br />Till, Witham pass'd, the landscape yields <br />On left and right to widening fields, <br />Flint church-towers sparkling in the light, <br />Black beams and weather-boarding white, <br />Cricket-bat willows silvery green <br />And elmy hills with brooks between, <br />Maltings and saltings, stack and quay <br />And, somewhere near, the grey North Sea; <br />Then further gentle undulations <br />With lonelier and less frequent stations, <br />Till in the dimmest place of all <br />The train slows down into a crawl <br />And stops in silence.....Where is this? <br />Dear Mary Wilson, this is Diss.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mind-s-journey-to-diss/
