VI. The Lights of London

The evenfall, so slow on hills, hath shot Far down into the valley's cold extreme, Untimely midnight; spire and roof and stream Like fleeing spectres, shudder and are not. The Hampstead hollies, from their sylvan plot Yet cloudless, lean to watch as in a dream, From chaos climb with many a hasty gleam, London, one moment fallen and forgot. Her booths begin to flare; and gases bright Prick door and window; every street obscure Sparkles and swarms with nothing true nor sure, Full as a marsh of mist and winking light: Heaven thickens over, Heaven that cannot cure Her tear by day, her fevered smile by night.