I love thy banks the best, O silent Thames,
At morning time,
When fogs steal o’er them, and with ruddy flames
The still weak sun
Bursts, now and then, at moments through the mist
And sudden flies,
Leaving the landscape which his beams have kissed,
Cold and forlorn;
And then, again returning to the fight,
The God of morn
Dispels the clouds, and bathes in trembling light
Thy banks so gay.
Or struggling with the clouds, now here, now there,
O’erpowers them, and ushers in the day.
I love thy banks again, O merry Thames,
Ambient and gay,
When lowing herds graze in thy meads, or lie
With whisk of tail
In the long grass, half hidden by the glazed
And heated air,
And chew the cud half-silent or half-dazed.
How deadly still
Is the full tide of noon, when beasts and birds
Alike repose,
And from the sullen shade not e’en a bee
Or dragon-fly
Breaks the hour’s silence! Then the cirrus clouds,
Wind-chas’d and heavy, roll or stagger by.
I love thy banks at all times, silver Thames,
But certes the least
When huge waves suddenly immerse their sides,
And from the East,
With sound of harp, or flute, and megaphones,
Young men and maids
On steamers Allah’s Holy Name invoke
In raucous tones
No Moslem knows, and call me curious names,
And drink, and smoke
Not nargiléhs, but strong cigars, whose whiff
Borne on the air,
Shocks my olfactory nerves, and makes me sick,
Sick of them all, the Thames, the whole affair!