Classic Poem

There is no town but London town.
I go wandering up and down,
Round and round and round about,
Back and forth, and in and out,
From light to shade, from shade to light,
In the dawn, and through the night,
When sleep scours all her streets of men,
And morning pours them back agen,
I go wandering like a shade,
The loneliest creature God has made,
And yet akin with all the earth,
And all that flesh has brought to birth,
And all I touch and all I see,
Oh, I am that, and that is me!
I love the tramp of human feet,
To feel the world's great pulses beat;
I love the triumphant roar of strife,
The clashing armaments of life;
I do not hate the smoke and grime,
The dusky kiss of labouring Time,
For smoke and grime make London grey,
And London white, and London gay,
Would seem to me a painted whore,
And not my London any more.
Oh, when the fog falls like a shroud
And smothers up the human crowd,
And I can only sense and smell
The living things I love so well,
And Death lurks slyly within reach,
And springs to warn men with a screech
And a dull gleam of lampish eyes
That life is short and all flesh dies;
Then mystery walks at my right hand,
And leads me to a mystic land—
A land of wan and muffled sound,
A land of undiscovered ground,
Where I must walk with silent lips
Beside a river whose dim ships,
Ghost cargoed and faint jewelled, glide
With and against an unseen tide;
And yellow wasps be-star the air,
And angels stand with wild bright hair,
And men walk nearer to God's throne
Because they find themselves alone.
And when the rain comes silvering down,
Oh, then I love this London town!
When Day has closed her drowsed lids up,
And Night shades life like some dark cup
Whose wine is spilt in golden dreams,
Then are the streets like shining streams,
And I in my battleship of fire
Hiss my mad way, my heart a lyre;
With delving feet and soaring wings
I am quick to the searching touch of things,
The ruddy arms of men, that gleam
Out of the darkness like a dream
Of fateful power; the piteous moon,
A fearful spirit come too soon,
Affronted by the storm wind's breath,
Dying a mournful misty death;
The lamps, those spiders of the night,
Spinning their wavering threads of light,
Seeking all heaven and earth to span,
From man to God, and God to man;
The thunder of a passing train,
Which belches out its hideous pain
Against the howling of the wind,
Streaming its Titan hair behind;
And then the quiet suburban streets,
Where still the mighty muffled beats
Of London's heart keep time with mine,
And London's distant lamps still shine
Reflected, hovering in the skies,
A burning moth with golden eyes.
Men say I love not London town,
Because I sing of hill and down,
Because I feel the insistent goad
Which drives me out upon the road
To seek the wide eternal green
That washes mind and spirit clean,
And leave the trodden streets behind,
And leap to meet the unfettered wind,
And dance because of budding trees,
And wing my longing to grey seas!
But oh, the dust beneath my feet
Is doubly dear and doubly sweet
That I shall tread it back agen
To London streets and London men!