On Seeing Phoebe in a Bus Queue

I SEE you waiting for a bus to Staines,
Wearing some sort of hat; some sort of coat:
The peeling patches on the springtime planes
Weave a mosaic frame around your throat.

Many a stolid taxi-driver swerves
And mutters words that Shakespeare never knew ,
When he unwarily perceives your curves
Among the wooden figures in the queue.

The blood that flows so richly from your heart
Awakes what curious fancies in your brain ?
And, having lingered there and done its part,
Carries what dark emotions back again?

Your message is, that he who sees your face
Reads more than any hand has written there;
So strangely often is the commonplace
Enshrined in beauty, to the soul’s despair.