A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.

They have watered the street,
   It shines in the glare of lamps,
   Cold, white lamps,
   And lies
   Like a slow-moving river,
   Barred with silver and black.
   Cabs go down it,
   One,
   And then another.
   Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
   Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
   Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
   The city is squalid and sinister,
   With the silver-barred street in the midst,
   Slow-moving,
   A river leading nowhere.

   Opposite my window,
   The moon cuts,
   Clear and round,
   Through the plum-coloured night.
   She cannot light the city;
   It is too bright.
   It has white lamps,
   And glitters coldly.

   I stand in the window and watch the moon.
   She is thin and lustreless,
   But I love her.
   I know the moon,
   And this is an alien city.