PICCADILLY

Above, the quiet stars and the night wind;

Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down

The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk

When the just sleep, at night, in London town.

Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare,

Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark

Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind

Is whispering to the trees across the Park;

For it is summer, may be, and the scent

Of new-mown hay is sweet across the fields,

But neither summer, nor the gleaming spring

One breath of healing to this dark life yields;

No morning sunshine greets these sidelong eyes

With blessings, daughters as they are of gloom,

Ghosts only, such as seem to have a shape

At night in some old evil, haunted room.

Would that they were indeed to be dissolved

At every sunrise!— they are living souls

Dragging mortality about foul streets

While overhead the star-lit heaven rolls.

Living souls are they, and they have their share

In seed and harvest, and the round world's boon

Of changing seasons, and the miracle

Of each month's waxing and waning of the moon.

Living souls are they, prisoned in a net

Of stealthy streets — age after age they've gone

Bearing the burden of a city's sin,

In London, and old Rome, and Babylon.