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Title: Piccadilly
Author: John Presland [
More Titles by Presland]
Above, the quiet stars and the night wind;
Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down
The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk
When the just sleep, at night, in London town.
Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare,
Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark
Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind
Is whispering to the trees across the Park;
For it is summer, may be, and the scent
Of new-mown hay is sweet across the fields,
But neither summer, nor the gleaming spring
One breath of healing to this dark life yields;
No morning sunshine greets these sidelong eyes
With blessings, daughters as they are of gloom,
Ghosts only, such as seem to have a shape
At night in some old evil, haunted room.
Would that they were indeed to be dissolved
At every sunrise!--they are living souls
Dragging mortality about foul streets
While overhead the star-lit heaven rolls.
Living souls are they, and they have their share
In seed and harvest, and the round world's boon
Of changing seasons, and the miracle
Of each month's waxing and waning of the moon.
Living souls are they, prisoned in a net
Of stealthy streets--age after age they've gone
Bearing the burden of a city's sin,
In London, and old Rome, and Babylon.
[The end]
John Presland's poem: Piccadilly
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