The evenfall, so slow on hills, hath shot <br />Far down into the valley's cold extreme, <br />Untimely midnight; spire and roof and stream <br />Like fleeing spectres, shudder and are not. <br />The Hampstead hollies, from their sylvan plot <br />Yet cloudless, lean to watch as in a dream, <br />From chaos climb with many a sudden gleam, <br />London, one moment fallen and forgot. <br /> <br />Her booths begin to flare; and gases bright <br />Prick door and window; all her streets obscure <br />Sparkle and swarm with nothing true or sure, <br />Full as a marsh of mist and winking light; <br />Heaven thickens over, Heaven that cannot cure <br />Her tear by day, her fevered smile by night.<br /><br />Louise Imogen Guiney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lights-of-london/
