In Hyde Park

The white mist walks between the trees

In silver gown;

Her mystic floating draperies

The branches drown;

And lurking there with eager leer

And wonder new,

The lamps inquisitively peer

Their fingers through.

The world sighs wearily, with pain

Drawing tired breath;

The stars are like a silver rain;

And down beneath

On Night's smooth garment running o'er

In sullen flood,

The city, like a festering sore,

Oozes warm blood.