Poems (Tree)/London Grows Sad at Evening
LONDON grows sad at evening,And we at the windows sitTo watch her moods,Wearying with her.Even a noise of laughter from the streetSounds in our earsLike something dropped and shattered on the stone.Then her musician comes,A wandering, malicious spirit;The organ grinder, playing those old tunesWe know too well,That hurt us with fatigue.Till Hope like a harlequin,His glitter hidden in a ragged coat,The lamplighter, goes by,Planting his pale flames in the dusk.
1918