Certainly our city with its byres of poverty down to br The river's edge, its cathedral, its engines, its dogs; br Here is the cosmopolitan cooking br And the light alloys and the glass. br br Built by the conscience-stricken, the weapon-making, br By us. Wild rumours woo and terrify the crowd, br Woo us. Betrayers thunder at, blackmail br Us. But where now are They. br br Who without reproaches showed us what our vanity br has chosen, br Who pursued understanding with patience like a sex, br had unlearnt br Our hatred and towards the really better br World had turned their face? br br Who knows? The peaked and violent faces are exalted, br The feverish prejudiced lives do not care, and lost br Their voice in the flutter of bunting, the glittering br Brass of our great retreat, br br And the malice of death. For the wicked card is dealt and br The sinister tall-hatted botanist stoops at the spring br With his insignificant phial and looses br The plague on the ignorant town. br br Under their shadows the pitiful subalterns are sleeping; br The moon is usual; the necessary lovers touch; br The river is alone and the trampled flower; br And through years of absolute cold br br The planets rush towards Lyra in a lion's charge. Can br Hate so securely bind? Are they dead here? Yes. br And the wish to wound has the power. And tomorrow br Comes. It's a world. It's a way.