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. 

 

 

 IN THE TUBE 

 A tired, working woman, draggle-tailed, Came in, harsh-featured in the yellow glare Of electricity; an urchin trailed Clumsily after her, with towsled hair, And sharp, pale features, and a vacant stare, And in her arms she bore another child. 

 A sick child, doubtless, where all three looked sick; The poor legs hanging limply, lean and blue, Dangled grotesquely, for the boots, too thick For such frail bones a touch could snap in two, Like clock-weights seemed to swing, as staggered through The burdened mother, till she found a seat. 

 Through dark unnatural to unnatural blaze Of stations rocked the train; it tore the air To shreds and tatters in the tunnelled ways With such a noise as when hell's trumpets blare; We, swaying, faced our fellow-creatures there Each mercilessly pilloried in light. 

 The sick child lay against the woman's breast Asleep, and she looked down on it and smiled, And with her gaunt arms made her bird a nest Against her poor worn bosom—sad and mild In such wise looked Madonna at her Child Where old saints worshipped, round the altar set. 

 Such glory of the spirit shone and streamed In that brief moment, that her form and face Were rags of vesture only, through which gleamed The splendour; something of wonder and of grace Making the poor flesh lovely—all the place Grew holy with the Mother and the Child. 

 

 

 A LONDON IDYLL 

 I 

 A heavy sky, and a drizzling rain And the lamps in rigid rows; Long smears of light all down the street Where a lean cat stalking goes; 

 Blank, save a glimmer here and there The gaunt dark houses stand— And a man and a girl against the gate Whispering, hand in hand. 

 There is a little dripping sound Of rain from off the roof; And gleaming like black armour goes The policeman's waterproof. 

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