And now, Earth hasn’t anything as fair-
ground-like to show, as this large ferris wheel.
Where Wordsworth found his London’s great appeal
Lay in its lying like a sleeper, bare
And open to his gaze in morning air,
Ten score-ten years ago, it’s as unreal,
To see the city’s majesty, yet feel
It’s never dormant now nor unaware,
Except when it rolls forth as we sail high
And arc above it on this rounded track.
Wordsworth, were you were living, you would fly
Here, since it’s now the only place nearby
Where you could gaze and not find gazing back
At you, this blinking, never-blinking Eye.
Frank
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-- Frank
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