A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally¹ into a sky
Of leaden heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul², and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung cloud.  I hear the sigh
The goaded³ city gives, not day
Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished⁴ labours stay.
Below, straight streets, monotonous,
From north and south, from east and west,
Stretch glittering; and luminous
Above, one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man's constant quest:
Time!  Joyless emblem⁵ of the greed
Of millions, robber of the best
Which earth can give, the vulgar creed
Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed⁶.
O Night!  Whose soothing⁷ presence brings
The quiet shining of the stars.
O Night!  Whose cloak of darkness clings
So intimately close that scars
Are hid from our own eyes.  Beggars
By day, our wealth is having night
To burn our souls before altars
Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light
Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
This is the hour, but thou art not.
Will waking tumult⁸ never cease?
Hast thou thy votary⁹ forgot?
Nature forsakes¹⁰ this man-begot
And festering wilderness¹¹, and now
The long still hours are here, no jot
Of dear communing do I know;
Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans¹² below!

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