Whitsuntide In London
Bells burst across the town, the city, all over London's workhouses and minories
A world of glad and beautiful things rush into mans hearts bringing back memories,
Days of darkness and trial, scenes of fraud, faithlessness fade away and disappear,
A world of hard iron men and all that is sad and oppressive go away, hope returns.
Blue skies and far away woods carry the sound of these merry bells to a toiling race,
Workers rise from the foggy atmosphere of the care paved cities to stand in greenness,
Back to a land of pleasant memories, the sun was always shining, the air always clear,
Away from machinery noise, the books of learning where tall office stools stand empty.
To streams of pure water flowing in harmony with happy larks, ****, the thrush sang,
Nature waits to receive all, its arms wide open to protect workers from dismal dreams,
Dreams can become a reality of beauty and peace, time away, from all worries and fear,
Men break the spell of town dreariness and once more enjoy being in the midst of woods.
People take their first flight into the near forest of Epping on a bright summers day,
To walk in green glades under a green covert of the close boughs of the hornbeam tree,
Along to a highway where Londoners dance, in the heat and dust, outside public houses,
Red as lobsters, working harder at their dancing then they would do in grim factories.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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