The clock is frozen in the tower,

The thickening fog with sooty smell

Has blanketed the motor power

Which turns the London streets to hell;

And footsteps with their lonely sound

Intensify the silence round.

I haven’t hope. I haven’t faith.

I live two lives and sometimes three.

The lives I live make life a death

For those who have to live with me.

Knowing the virtues that I lack,

I pat myself upon the back.

With breastplate of self-righteousness

And shoes of smugness on my feet,

Before the urge in me grows less

I hurry off to make retreat.

For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light

To lead me out into the night.

It glitters icy, thin and plain,

And leads me down to Waterloo-

Into a warm electric train

Which travels sorry Surrey through

And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine

Stand deadly still beside the line.



 

***

 

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