Flat Suburbs, S.W., in the Morning

The new red houses spring like plants In level rows Of reddish herbage that bristles and slants Its square shadows.

The pink young houses show one side bright Flatly assuming the sun, And one side shadow, half in sight, Half-hiding the pavement-run;

Where hastening creatures pass intent On their level way, Threading like ants that can never relent And have nothing to say.

Bare stems of street-lamps stiffly stand At random, desolate twigs, To testify to a blight on the land That has stripped their sprigs.