by Amy Lowell
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.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.
Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.
I stand in the window and watch the
moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon,
And this is an alien city.
4 comments:
Monch! Add mo ko sa linkage - finally made a writing blog (ahaha!) 8D
and we shall we establish correspondence, oui?
oui monsieur! haha c'est magnifique. lol.
je voudrais parler avec vous. donc, nous douvons avoir workshops! mais, c'est deficile, parce que je ne suis pas libre. Vous, quelle heure vous avez temps libre?
*nosebleed na me*
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