The poem
Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong, Pouring their music through the branches bare, From moon-white church towers down the windy air Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.
Remove those cottages, a huddled throng! Too many babies have been born in there, Too many coffins, bumping down the stair, Carried the old their garden paths along.
I have a Vision of the Future, chum, The workers' flats in fields of soya beans Tower up like silver pencils, score on score: And Surging Millions hear the Challenge come From microphones in communal canteens "No Right! No Wrong! All's perfect, evermore!"
Reprinted with the permission of John Murray (Publishers) Ltd.