The Lord of Life shakes off his drowsihed, <br />And 'gins to sprinkle on the earth below <br />Those rays that from his shaken locks do flow; <br />Meantime, by truant love of rambling led, <br />I turn my back on thy detested walls, <br />Proud city! and thy sons I leave behind, <br />A sordid, selfish, money-getting kind; <br />Brute things, who shut their ears when Freedom calls. <br />I pass not thee so lightly, well-known spire, <br />That mindest me of many a pleasure gone, <br />Of merrier days, of love and Islington; <br />Kindling afresh the flames of past desire. <br />And I shall muse on thee slow journeying on <br />To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire. <br /> <br />1795.<br /><br />Charles Lamb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-68/
