Nobody says: Ah, that is the place br Where chanced, in the hollow of years ago, br What none of the Three Towns cared to know - br The birth of a little girl of grace - br The sweetest the house saw, first or last; br Yet it was so br On that day long past. br br br Nobody thinks: There, there she lay br In a room by the Hoe, like the bud of a flower, br And listened, just after the bedtime hour, br To the stammering chimes that used to play br The quaint Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth tune br In Saint Andrew's tower br Night, morn, and noon. br br br Nobody calls to mind that here br Upon Boterel Hill, where the carters skid, br With cheeks whose airy flush outbid br Fresh fruit in bloom, and free of fear, br She cantered down, as if she must fall br (Though she never did), br To the charm of all. br br br Nay: one there is to whom these things, br That nobody else's mind calls back, br Have a savour that scenes in being lack, br And a presence more than the actual brings; br To whom to-day is beneaped and stale, br And its urgent clack br But a vapid tale.