IS it heaven and its city-porch,
Or a ceiling high-hung of old
With lacquer fumed and scrolled
Of many a festal torch?
High heaven it is, and the day
With its London doom of smoke
No storm can quite revoke.
No deluge wash away.
When their march and song grow mute
In the city's labyrinth trapped,
The storms themselves are wrapped
In draggled shrouds of soot.
Whirlwinds by lightnings paced
To run their wild career.
With ragged gossamere
Of fine-spun carbon-laced,
As soon as they quit the shires
Are lost beyond all hail:
The mightiest tempests quail
In the midst of a million fires.
But the heavens are clear to-day,
Though their London doom of smoke
No storm can quite revoke,
No deluge wash away.
Poetry Atlas has many other poems about London.