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BRIGHTON FRONT
Spew’d forth in fell array
’Gainst yon accusing presence of pure Even,
Look where the town’s thick volley of foul breath
Hits and besmirches Heaven,
And spurs the dying day
Unto its death.
The lamps fling out their long straight miles of glare,
But, upon stealthy feet,
Fog walks the street:
Coil’d round by whose chill hands, each troubled flare,
Paled, penn’d, bereft of rays,
Confusedly betrays,
But cannot lift, the burden of the air;
Nor the gilt shops, blindfold for all their blaze,
Illumine can the dulness and the daze,
Or light the listless eyes that in them gaze.
Yet still the mire-thick road
Re-echoes, the hoarse cries
Fight one another;
Carriages thud along toward revelries,
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