The clock is frozen in the tower,
The thickening fog with sooty
Has blanketed the motor
Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely
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
For those who have to live with me.
Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.
With breastplate of
And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows lessI hurry off to make retreat.
For somewhere, somewhere, burns a
To lead me out into the night.
It glitters icy, thin and plain,
And leads me down to Waterloo-Into a warm electric
Which travels sorry Surrey
And crystal-hung, the clumps of
Stand deadly still beside the line.
