You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
dry stone no sound of water."
"O City City, I can sometimes
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
splendour of Ionian white and gold."
This elephant bounces quite
And it takes off