A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.

They have watered the street,It shines in the glare of lamps,Cold, white lamps,And liesLike 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.