The moon had plunged beneath the clouds,
Like a body wrapped in shrouds,
Like a ghost, its slight pearl light,
Slowly tore the stygian night.
The cobbles, like a bracelet black,
Formed a rugged city track,
The carriges have ceased to ride,
London fair has finally died.
The East, in disrepair and strife,
Shows the only signs of life,
Women, men, and youth forlorn,
Work to the bone in this deep morn.
|
|
