Neon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,Beauty she was statue cold - there's blood upon her gown.

Neon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,
Beauty she was statue cold - there's blood upon her gown.

For lust of knowing what should not be known, we take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

For pines are gossip pines the wide world through.

Read out my words at night, alone: I was a poet, I was young

Half to forget the wandering and pain,/ Half to remember days that have gone by,/ And dream and dream that I am home again!