THROUGH crystal roofs the sunlight fell,
And pencilled beams the gloss renewed
On iron rafters balanced well
On iron struts; though dimly hued,
With smoke o'erlaid, with dust endued,
The walls and beams like beryl shone;
And dappled light the platforms strewed
With yellow foliage of the dawn
That withered by the porch of day's divan.
The fragrant, suave autumnal air
A dulcet Indian summer breathed,
Able to reach the inmost lair
Unclean of London's interwreathed
And labyrinthine railways, sheathed
In annual increments of soot:
Memories of regions parked and heathed.
Of orchards lit with golden fruit
Attuned October's subterranean lute.
But orchards lit with golden lamps,
Or purple moor, or nutbrown stream,
Or mountains where the morn encamps
Frequent no station-loafer's dream:
A breed of folk forlorn that seem
The heirs of disappointment, cast
By fate to be the preacher's theme.
To hunger daily and to fast.
And sink to helpless indigence at last.
From early morn they hang about
The bookstall, the refreshment-room;
They pause and think, as if in doubt
Which train to go by; now assume
A jaunty air, and now in gloom
They take the platform for a stage
And pace it, meditating doom —
Their own, the world's; in baffled rage
Condemning still the imperceptive age.
[Excerpt]
The rest of this lengthy poem maps a journey from Liverpool Street Station through Essex.
Poetry Atlas has many other poems about London.
And other poems about railway stations.