A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M

 They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.

Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another.

Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.

Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.

The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.

She cannot light the city;
It is too bright.

It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the moon.

She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.

I know the moon,
And this is an alien city.

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