Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/In Piccadilly
IN PICCADILLY
Lamp-lit faces, to you
What is your starry dew?
Gold flowers of the night blue!
Deep in wet pavement's slime
Mud-rooted is your fierce prime,
To bloom in lust's coloured clime.
The sheen of eyes that lust,
Which dew-time made your trust,
Lights your passionless dust.