The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,
The tie, discretely loud,
The loosely fitting shooting clothes,
A closely fitting shroud.
He liked old city dining rooms,
Potatoes in their skin,
But now his mouth is wide to
The London clay come in.
He took me on long silent
In country lanes when young.
He knew the names of ev'ry
But not the song it sung.
And when he could not hear me
He smiled and looked so
That now I do not like to
Of maggots in his eyes.
He liked the rain-washed Cornish
And smell of ploughed-up soil,
He liked a landscape big and
And painted it in oil.
But least of all he liked that
Which hangs on Highgate
Of soaked Carrara-covered
For Londoners to fill.
He would have liked to say goodbye,
Shake hands with many friends,
In Highgate now his
Stick through his finger-ends.
You,
God, who treat him thus and thus,
Say "Save his soul and pray."You ask me to believe You andI only see decay.
