Among These Dark, Satanic Mills

The rain smelt of dust
As old as England herself
And on that stoney moor
Or on the canal's shore
The heather and heath
their fortune bequeath'd
Is worth just as much
as the cotton and such
and the porcelain we blow'd
dropped along the old mill road
Where my sweet George first
Quenched my heart's thirst
and crowned me the queen of the meadowland

My father was dead soon after I wed
And we had consecrated our marital bed
Before the dauphine did grace us
with his dark, brooding faces
and my princesses in gowns
did walk all in crowns
while the littler prince found favor with God

My brothers were oxen
My husband a fox and
My sisters were cats
chasing these rats
and dangling them high
As I dreamt of the sky
That was clouded in smog and in filth.