Down and back at day dawn, Tramp from lake to lake, Washing brain and heart clean Every step we take. Leave to Robert Browning Beggars, fleas, and vines; Leave to mournful Ruskin Popish Apennines, Dirty stones of Venice, And his gas lamps seven, We've the stones of Snowdon And the lamps of heaven.
His English reminds me of tattered washing on the line?of stale bean-soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. 566
Her washing ended with the day,Yet lived she at its close,And passed the long, long night awayIn darning ragged hose.But when the sun in all its stateIllumed the Eastern skies,She passed about the kitchen grateAnd went to making pies.phoebe cary