Around the park the lamps are lit
in every small self-conscious street.
And scrubbed half moons at every door
have now grown dark with passing feet.
The brasses in the morning shined
are now by many hands begrimed.
And well-soaped brickwork round the halls
is not so bright as evening falls.

Pin curls now released from turbans.
Colour rubbed on many lips.
Water heated on the stove,
and children quickly sent for chips.
The factory horn, one minute late,
sends workers rushing through the gate.

And then the sound of tramping feet
is heard along each darkening street.
Through the park gates swans gleam dimly.
Cats kill sparrows in the street.
Wallflowers droop in city dance halls,
noses shining in the heat.

The mighty Wurlitzer plays at ‘The Pictures,’
and the corner shops sell homespun mixtures.
Ropes in the wind from the lamp posts sway
and lonely spinsters kneel and pray.

And working girls stamp and fret
homeward hastened by threat of snow.
Lamenting that few will stay abroad
as pavements glitter, and iced winds blow.
Black tracery of trees seduce the eye
against clouds like grapes in a lowering sky.
Now bible boys dream of sowing and reaping,
but hell fire with the city, all lie sleeping.