IN LONDON
CONES
The blue mist of after-rain
Fills all the trees;
The sunlight gilds the tops
Of the poplar spires, far off.
Here a branch sways
And there
a sparrow twitters.
The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered,
Flutters, and half reveals
A burnt-red chimney-pot.
The quiet in the room
Bears patiently
A footfall on the street.
GLOOM
I sat there in the dark
Of the room and of my mind
Thinking of men's treasons and bad faith,
Sinking into the pit of my own weakness
Before their strength of cunning.
Out over the gardens came the sound of someone
Playing five-finger exercises on the piano.
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