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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.

Poem by Amy Lowell
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