The Lights of London by Louise Imogen Guiney

The evenfall, so slow on hills, hath shot
Far down into the valley’s cold extreme,
Untimely midnight; spire and roof and stream
Like fleeing spectres, shudder and are not.
The Hampstead hollies, from their sylvan plot
Yet cloudless, lean to watch as in a dream,
From chaos climb with many a sudden gleam,
London, one moment fallen and forgot.

Her booths begin to flare; and gases bright
Prick door and window; all her streets obscure
Sparkle and swarm with nothing true nor sure,
Full as a marsh of mist and winking light;
Heaven thickens over, Heaven that cannot cure
Her tear by day, her fevered smile by night.

From: Guiney, Louise Imogen, A Roadside Harp: a Book of Verses, 1893, Houghton Mifflin: Boston and New York, p. 58.
(http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/vwwp/VAB7145)

Date: 1893

By: Louise Imogen Guiney (1861-1920)

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