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Haven

Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed,

Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic

To that full calm which may be justly called

Seraphic,

I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape

From the hard grip of premature Jehannun,

One golden-tissued bottle of the grape

Per annum.

For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged,

Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover,

Where a huge porter in his orbit charged

Me over;

Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp;

Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces,

Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp

In places);

Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare

Of natural foliage, but bravely flying

Frank garlandry of last week's underwear

Out drying;

And so to Town; and with that blessed sight

I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver -

Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White

Man's Liver;

And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand,

With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle,

Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band

Could tackle:

Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile

(Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder,

Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile

In wonder!

Let none approach me now, for I have dined;

The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma

Infects my being with a pleasant kind

Of coma;

Calmly I contemplate my future lot:

I reconstruct the past - it fails to strike me

With aught of horror (pity there are not

More like me!) -

My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast;

The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it

Imparts a richer brightness to the West,

Good luck to it!