Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot--
(Fool that he is)--and fumble with his warrant,
And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"

Mocking I'll go, and he shall be postillion,
Until we reach the Keeper of the Door:
"H'm ... Benson ... Stella ... militant civilian ...
There's some mistake, we've had this soul before...."

* * * * * *

Ah, none shall keep my soul from this its Zion;
Lost in the spaces I shall hear and bless
The splendid voice of London, like a lion
Calling its lover in the wilderness.




TWO WOMEN SING

FIRST WOMAN


Oh woman--woman--woman,--
Shall I to woman be a friend?
I deal with man, and when I can
Reclaim with interest all I lend.
Who but a witless gambler plays
For farthing stakes these golden days?