The city of dreadful night
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Book Description
Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: SUNDAY AT HAMPSTEAD. 1863; 1863. (AN IDLE IDYLL BY A VERY HUMBLE MEMBER OF THE GREAT AND NOBLE LONDON MOB.) This is the Heath of Hampstead, There is the dome of Saint Paul's ; Beneath, on the serried house...
MorePurchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: SUNDAY AT HAMPSTEAD. 1863; 1863. (AN IDLE IDYLL BY A VERY HUMBLE MEMBER OF THE GREAT AND NOBLE LONDON MOB.) This is the Heath of Hampstead, There is the dome of Saint Paul's ; Beneath, on the serried house-tops, A chequered lustre falls : And the mighty city of London, Under the clouds and the light, Seems a low wet beach, half shingle, With a few sharp rocks upright. Here will we sit, my darling, And dream an hour away : The donkeys are hurried and worried, But we are not donkeys to-day : Though all the weary week, dear, We toil in the murk down there, Tied to a desk and a counter, A patient stupid pair ! But on Sunday we slip our tether, And away from the smoke and the smirch ; Too grateful to God for His Sabbath To shut its hours in a church. Away to the green, green country, Under the open sky ; Where the earth's sweet breath is incense And the lark sings psalms on high. On Sunday we're Lord and Lady, With ten times the love and glee Of those pale and languid rich ones Who are always and never free. They drawl and stare and simper, So fine and cold and staid, Like exquisite waxwork figures That must be kept in the shade : We can laugh out loud when merry, We can romp at kiss-in-the-ring, We can take our beer at a public, We can loll on the grass and sing. . . . Would you grieve very much, my darling, If all yon low wet shore Were drowned by a mighty flood-tide, And we never toiled there more ? Wicked?- there is no sin, dear, In an idle dreamer's head ; He turns the world topsy-turvy To prove that his soul's not dead. I am sinking, sinking, sinking; It is hard to sit upright ! Your lap is the softest pillow ! Good night, my Love, good night! How your eyes dazzle down into my soul! I drink and drink of their deep...
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