Middlesex
I sing of rural Middlesex,
A presence ghostly and benign
To raise the hairs along your necks
Along the green Electric Line.
Tall poplars shimmering and trembly,
Tea-time trios at the Grand,
Wet Willesden, melancholy Wembley,
All the dreams of Metroland!
Walk to the West from Hampstead Heath
To Hatch End, Harrow on the Hill.
The fields lie sleeping underneath.
Breathe deeply and you smell them still.
Ah Ruislip Manor, Rayners Lane!
Our world is wearing worse and worse,
Yet Middlesex can live again
In Betjeman’s romantic verse.
Romantic isn't quite right.
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