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 />George Eliot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-a-london-drawingroom/
