Parodies (1959-60)

They wander always in a crowd
And climb on high o'er hills and spurs,
With one small wireless turned up loud -
The host of urban picnickers;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
They throw their litter to the breeze.

Like busy ants upon a hill,
They swarm upon the sunlit strand
And wander in the sea at will
Or build large castles in the sand;
Ten thousand see I at a glance,
Busy checking their treble chance!

They sit in deck-chairs getting tanned
Or play with beach-balls on the shores.
Oh, to be with this happy band
And gambol through the apple cores!
I watch - and watch - but little dream
That I could hate what fair does seem.

For often when I lie at rest
Thinking of joys and sights long past,
I take that host within my breast
And to my soul I make it fast.
Then my bold heart with pleasure purrs
And gambols with the picnickers !

N. E. WYLDE, L.VI.