A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.

Of all the trees that grow so fair, / Old England to adorn, / Greater are none beneath the Sun, / Than Oak and Ash and Thorn.

The coastwise lights of England watch the ships of England go!

What stands if Freedom fall? / Who dies if England live?

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing - 'Oh how beautiful!' and sitting in the shade, While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel paths with broken dinner knives

I have struck a city - a real city - and they call it Chicago... I urgently desire never to see it again. It is inhabited by savages.