London grows sad at evening...

London grows sad at evening,

And we at the windows sit

To watch her moods,

Wearying with her.

Even a noise of laughter from the street

Sounds in our ears

Like something dropped and shattered on the stone.

Then her musician comes,

A wandering, malicious spirit;

The organ grinder, playing those old tunes

We know too well,

That hurt us with fatigue.

Till Hope like a harlequin,

His glitter hidden in a ragged coat,

The lamplighter, goes by,

Planting his pale flames in the dusk.