Dear Mary, br Yes, it will be bliss br To go with you by train to Diss, br Your walking shoes upon your feet; br We'll meet, my sweet, at Liverpool Street. br That levellers we may be reckoned br Perhaps we'd better travel second; br Or, lest reporters on us burst, br Perhaps we'd better travel first. br Above the chimney-pots we'll go br Through Stepney, Stratford-atte-Bow br And out to where the Essex marsh br Is filled with houses new and harsh br Till, Witham pass'd, the landscape yields br On left and right to widening fields, br Flint church-towers sparkling in the light, br Black beams and weather-boarding white, br Cricket-bat willows silvery green br And elmy hills with brooks between, br Maltings and saltings, stack and quay br And, somewhere near, the grey North Sea; br Then further gentle undulations br With lonelier and less frequent stations, br Till in the dimmest place of all br The train slows down into a crawl br And stops in silence.....Where is this? br Dear Mary Wilson, this is Diss.