The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke. <br />For view there are the houses opposite <br />Cutting the sky with one long line of wall <br />Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch <br />Monotony of surface & of form <br />Without a break to hang a guess upon. <br />No bird can make a shadow as it flies, <br />For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung <br />By thickest canvass, where the golden rays <br />Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering <br />Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye <br />Or rest a little on the lap of life. <br />All hurry on & look upon the ground, <br />Or glance unmarking at the passers by <br />The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages <br />All closed, in multiplied identity. <br />The world seems one huge prison-house & court <br />Where men are punished at the slightest cost, <br />With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.<br /><br />Mary Anne Evans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-a-london-drawingroom-2/
