J. D. C. Fellow
London Bridge is broken down; Green is the grass on Ludgate Hill; I know a farmer in Camden Town
Quiet he lived, and quietly died; Nor, like the unwilling tide, Did once complain or strive
They say that I shall find him if I go Along the dusty highways, or the green Tracks of the downland shepherds, or between
Between the erect and solemn trees I will go down upon my knees; I shall not find this day
When all is said And all is done Beneath the Sun,
