The Blind-Worm.

Camden Town, a child created,
Miracle in rented rooms,
Generated ignorant of
Hate and human hecatombs.
         But flickering doubts are fanned, and
         In the fire desire to know
         And love lie blistering and blighted.
               Children's Rues Have Far To Go.

And the train
On the ringing track
Singing back, furrows
Through the hearing black, peering back,
Buffeting the darkness
In the burrows
Of the blind-worm.

Piccadilly's fallen idol,
Cheap acquaintance, silent door,
The search to find a glint of pure love
In a vein of crudest ore.
         The bidders crowd the public sale
         Of momentary sympathy where sin is
         Bargained for as just another lot.
               My Goodness, Three Guineas.

And the strain
Of the clinging track
Ringing back, furrows
Through the sneering black, leering back,
Buffeting the darkness
In the burrows
Of the blind-worm.

Epping Forest the countryside,
Leaves are falling from the limb,
Age goes creeping to the vestry
With a sudden love of Him:
         An awe-ful love, an awful longing
         To belong, to integrate the weaker
         Part, to complement and so to rest.
               Love Deeper, Sleep Sweeter ...

- "Bendoon"