(1905) “They were married And lived happily ever after.” But before living happily ever after They drove to Paddington Station Where, acutely embarrassed, harassed And harried; Bruised by excessive jubilation And suffering from strain They got into a train And, having settled themselves in a reserved carriage, Sought relief, with jokes and nervous laughter, From the sudden, frightening awareness of their marriage. Caught in the web their fate had spun They watched the suburbs sliding by, Rows of small houses, neatly matched, Safe, respectable, semi-detached; Lines of gardens like pale green stripes, Men in shirtsleeves smoking pipes Making the most of a watery sun In a watery English sky. Then pollarded willows and the river curving Between high trees and under low grey bridges Flowing through busy locks, looping and swerving Past formal gardens bright with daffodils. Further away the unpretentious hills Rising in gentle, misty ridges, Quiet, insular, and proud Under their canopies of cloud. Presently the silence between them broke, Edward, tremulous in his new tweed suit And Lavinia, pale beneath her violet toque, Opened the picnic-basket, lovingly packed By loving hands only this morning—No! Those sardine sandwiches were neatly stacked Lost centuries ago. The pale, cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs and fruit The cheese and biscuits and madeira cake Were all assembled in another life Before “I now pronounce you man and wife” Had torn two sleepers suddenly awake From all that hitherto had been a dream And cruelly hurled Both of them, shivering, into this sweeping stream This alien, mutual unfamiliar world. A little later, fortified by champagne They sat, relaxed but disinclined to talk Feeling the changing rhythms of the train Bearing them onward through West country towns Outside in the half light, serene and still, They saw the fading Somersetshire Downs And, gleaming on the side of a smooth, long hill A white horse carved in chalk. Later still, in a flurry of rain They arrived at their destination And with panic gripping their hearts again They drove from the noisy station To a bright, impersonal double room In the best hotel in Ilfracombe. They opened the window and stared outside At the outline of the curving bay, At dark cliffs crouching in the spray And wet sand bared by the falling tide. The scudding clouds and the rain-furrowed sea Mocked at their desperate chastity. Inside the room the gas globes shed, Contemptuous of their bridal night, A hard, implacable yellow light On a hard, implacable double bed. The fluted mahogany looking glass Reflected their prison of blazing brass, Crude, unendurable, unkind. And then, quite suddenly, with a blind Instinctive gesture of loving grace, She lifted her hand and touched his face.