The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, <br />Over the pale grey tumbled towers,— <br />And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. <br />Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, <br />Curls like a dream among the motionless trees <br />And seems to freeze. <br /> <br />The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, <br />Whirls over sleeping faces, <br />Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; <br />And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . <br /> <br />And one from his high window, looking down, <br />Peers at the cloud-white town, <br />And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . <br />It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain <br />Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam.<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-of-dust-part-01-08-the-white-fog-creep-2/
