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The Tavern of Last Times - ZaunköniG - 30.09.2007 The Tavern of Last Times 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. |