The heavy mahogany door with its wrought-iron screen <br /> Shuts. And the sound is rich, sympathetic, discreet. <br />The sun still shines on this eighteenth-century scene <br /> With Edwardian faience adornment — Devonshire Street. <br /> <br />No hope. And the X-ray photographs under his arm <br /> Confirm the message. His wife stands timidly by. <br />The opposite brick-built house looks lofty and calm <br /> Its chimneys steady against the mackerel sky. <br /> <br />No hope. And the iron knob of this palisade <br /> So cold to the touch, is luckier now than he <br />'Oh merciless, hurrying Londoners! Why was I made <br /> For the long and painful deathbed coming to me?' <br /> <br />She puts her fingers in his, as, loving and silly <br /> At long-past Kensington dances she used to do <br />'It's cheaper to take the tube to Piccadilly <br /> And then we can catch a nineteen or twenty-two'.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/devonshire-street-w-1/
