There are circles of green upon Cissbury Hill,
Where the Pharisees dance--so they say;
Revelling merrily round it until
The dawn over Ditchling is gray.
And travellers lost upon Cissbury Hill--
(Pixy-led folk who stray)
Seated on toad-stools, with fairy folk sup,
_But here, in Haymarket, the roadway is up_.
There are circles of beech upon Cissbury Hill,
Where the leaves of a lifetime decay;
Hiding the memories, lingering still,
Of Rome’s indisputable sway.
And under the beech-leaves of Cissbury Hill,
Throbs the heart of the downland alway.
While dreaming of chieftains and warriors in woad,
_You’re lighting your pipe in the Charing Cross Road_.
[Illustration]