The steps in Vernon Park
Were made for grandeur.
Three flights with a fine
Climb a steep, green hill
To a view you cannot see.
On the left, half glimpsed, Goyt river,
Cascading down Stringer's
The walk in the woods a mystery,
'River and steps closed' a sign reads.
On up the empty staircase,
Thronging with ghosts of wedding parties
And all the brides in white,
Still posed where they stood for
With bouquets to cast aside.
But there's nobody on the terrace above,
Where the grassy slope rolls on,
And nobody strolls with a parasol
Where the rockery goes along.
A pathway winds down to a fountain,
Where the statue plays alone
And a moorhen in solitary splendour
Nests in the reeds of its bowl.
The park is a deserted mansion now,
Its finery stranded outdoors,
The follies all built for sober pleasure
for the purpose of balls.
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