Shall I compare thee to a motorway service station?
Thy plight more ugly and more desperate.
Foul men do join in mean formation,
And culture’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime in greed the eye of mammon shines,
And often is his gold-lined pocket brimmed,
And every fair unfair sometimes inclines,
By tarmac, concrete and brick be-rimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall Bloor brag thou resteth in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.