The clock is frozen in the tower, <br />The thickening fog with sooty smell <br />Has blanketed the motor power <br />Which turns the London streets to hell; <br />And footsteps with their lonely sound <br />Intensify the silence round. <br /> <br />I haven't hope. I haven't faith. <br />I live two lives and sometimes three. <br />The lives I live make life a death <br />For those who have to live with me. <br />Knowing the virtues that I lack, <br />I pat myself upon the back. <br /> <br />With breastplate of self-righteousness <br />And shoes of smugness on my feet, <br />Before the urge in me grows less <br />I hurry off to make retreat. <br />For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light <br />To lead me out into the night. <br /> <br />It glitters icy, thin and plain, <br />And leads me down to Waterloo- <br />Into a warm electric train <br />Which travels sorry Surrey through <br />And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine <br />Stand deadly still beside the line.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/guilt-51/
