The Tavern of Last Times

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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


   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.

from An Englishman and Other Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1912)

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