The sluggish clouds hang low upon the town,
And from yon lamp in chilled and sodden rays
The feeble light gropes through the heavy mist
And dies, extinguished in the stagnant maze.
From moisty eaves the drops fall slowly down
To strike with leaden sound the walk below,
And in dark, murky pools upon the street
The water stands, as lacking life to flow.
With hopeless brain, oppressed and sad at heart,
Toil’s careworn slave turns out his flickering light
And treads in dreams his dulling round again,
Where weary day succeeds to dismal night.
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