A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.

    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 shuffling¹ of feet.

    Tramps doze² on the window-ledges，

    Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.

    The city is squalid and sinister³，

    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 lustreless⁴，

    But I love her.

    I know the moon，

    And this is an alien city.