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In a London Drawingroom

 The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch Monotony of surface & of form Without a break to hang a guess upon.
No bird can make a shadow as it flies, For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung By thickest canvass, where the golden rays Are clothed in hemp.
No figure lingering Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye Or rest a little on the lap of life.
All hurry on & look upon the ground, Or glance unmarking at the passers by The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages All closed, in multiplied identity.
The world seems one huge prison-house & court Where men are punished at the slightest cost, With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.

Poem by George Eliot
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