Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England. The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils. Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding. A London Thoroughfare. They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it, One, And then another.
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Through the plum-coloured night. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly. I stand in the window and watch the moon. But I love her.