the wordlinks poetry project

london scene ii

Above the clouds, I’m sure a moon the gloom doth try to strike, but only flickering gaslamp flames can whiten darkened streets. So clear’s the air above the street: no fog impedes the gaslight-glare. Like silver sleet, the skydrops fall and blend to gold in trembling pools. Oh, how the flame makes bright the night! Oh, how the rain from ill makes right!  *

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