Into the dome of Paul’s they flow, so many
Flowers of London town, children on tour,
As such excited fervor passes any
Least sound is multiplied, and tremor pure
Fills all the cupola—from the outside,
Atop the roof of Paul’s, one’s eyes survey
The vast expanse of London reaching wide,
Historic buildings mixed in the array
Of new metallic domes and steel-built spires,
Even as from the bird’s eye view one sees
People and things as small, while one admires
The architect’s audacity to seize
Initiative to build a place so strong:
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

The Thames runs softly not too far away;
New London Bridge has crossed the ancient spot;
In nearby Fleet Street, financiers make play
And London sprawls and pulsates with her lot
Of modem and historic cultural fervor,
As new is built upon the ghosts of old,
Ever of commerce inspirer and server
The ancient majesty still keeps its hold,
Even as time flows forward, like the Thames,
While men and women work, and lead their lives
Of often frantic, desperate stratagems
As competition ever teems and thrives
Within the bustling city’s vibrant throng:
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

City of Culture! Here beneath this place
Lies Donne, the poet, as was former dean
In old St. Paul’s this edifice replace,
Downed in a fire like as was never seen
By which medieval London all was vanquished--
As helpless citizens across the bank
Marvelled, so many hopes and dreams relinquished
Even as mixed with awe, so their hearts sank--
Yet phoenix-like the city was rebuilt,
Resurgam from the ashes of despair,
So southern transept’s pediment where skilled
Dane sculptor Cibber’s phoenix soars declare:
Resurgam—”I shall rise again”—not wrong:
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

London that art the home, if not in blood
Of my ancestral forebears, in the craft
Of English verse, to whom I own a good
And everlasting debt within their aft--
“Clearing-house of the world” great city not
Built by the English-speaking, but soon claimed,
As is their pride that will not be forgot,
Though ever cosmopolitan, untamed,
And multi-national even since inception--
If European capitals be gems
London is great and gaudy, a contraption
For commerce founded on the flowing Thames--
Yet what a boon unto the English tongue.
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

There from the perch atop St. Paul’s Cathedral
One sees across to where there stood the Globe,
The “Wooden O” or structure polyhedral
Where Shakespeare’s plays did human nature probe;
Or there, nearby, stands infamous the Tower
Where Lords and Ladies, even Lady Grey
The “Nine Day Queen” and Anne Boleyn, their hour
Of execution met, for crimes to pay,
Even if merely intrigue’s allegation,
Such as surround affairs of them that have
Been crowned to helm a great and powerful nation,
For power often leads men to their grave
As Shakespeare’s plays reported all along:
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

City of verse! And city of many arts--
Yet let us not repeat the litany
Of those whose English words have shaped our hearts,
Thinkers and scientists—where men will be
Free to pursue not just economy
Such as amount to financial endeavor,
But art and science such as make men free,
There live the human spirit, there forever!
Memorialized, within the floors and walls
Are England’s finest, there Darwin and Newton
And many more illustrious St. Paul’s
Commemorates, their fine deeds to salute in
Graven stone—more her crypt lie there among.
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington
Each have their tomb enclosed in St. Paul’s crypt,
Great military figures each that won
Decisive battles when England was gripped
Amidst crisis of warfare—Nelson who
Died in the height of battle in his greatest
Victory, poignant life and spirit true,
Trafalgar Day be kept unto the latest
As holiday in England; while the Duke
It was the great Napoleon did repulse
In his ambition, giving it rebuke
At Waterloo—such heroes music mulls
In symphony with timpani and gong.
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.

Laid too within the tomb Christopher Wren,
Who built St. Paul’s, the “genius geometric”
Admired by Newton—when we label men
“Renaissance man,” most often ’tis but rhet’ric,
Yet he, like Rome’s Bernini, had great talents
In many disciplines—to undertake
So great a scheme in harmony and balance
But would have caused a lesser man to quake;
To see it done, a testament profound,
Whereby the words are written, in effect:
If you seek a memorial, look around.
Let such a man be held up to respect,
And all who build, applauded to our young:
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.