Explore "The Tavern of Last Times" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A modern hour from London (as we spin / Into a silver thread the miles of space / Between us and our goal), there is a place / Apart from city traffic, dust, and din, / Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn. / Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face / Which made his world; and by its magic grace / Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin. / And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats / Wrote the last one of those immortal songs / (Called by the critics of his day ‘mere rhymes'). / A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats / Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs, / There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.