In Hyde Park

The white mist walks between the

In silver gown;

Her mystic floating

The branches drown;

And lurking there with eager

And wonder new,

The lamps inquisitively

Their fingers through.

The world sighs wearily, with

Drawing tired breath;

The stars are like a silver rain;

And down

On Night's smooth garment running

In sullen flood,

The city, like a festering sore,

Oozes warm blood.