Guilt

 The clock is frozen in the tower,
The thickening fog with sooty smell
Has blanketed the motor power
Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely sound
Intensify the silence round.


I haven't hope.
 I haven't faith.

I live two lives and sometimes three.

The lives I live make life a death
For those who have to live with me.

Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.


With breastplate of self-righteousness
And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows less
I hurry off to make retreat.

For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light
To lead me out into the night.


It glitters icy, thin and plain,
And leads me down to Waterloo-
Into a warm electric train
Which travels sorry Surrey through
And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine
Stand deadly still beside the line.

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