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Ella Wheeler Wilcox - The Tavern Of Last Times
Work rating: Low

At Box Hill, Surrey

A modern hour from London (as we spin 
Into a silver thread the miles of space 
Between us and our goal), there is a place 
Apart from city traffic, dust, and din, 
Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn. 
Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face 
Which made his world; and by its magic grace 
Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin. 
And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats 
Wrote the last one of those immortal songs 
(Called by the critics of his day `mere rhymes`). 
A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats 
Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs, 
There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.
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