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.