In a London Drawingroom

The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
    For view there are the houses opposite
    Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
    Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
    Monotony of surface & of form
    Without a break to hang a guess upon.
    No bird can make a shadow as it flies,
    For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung
    By thickest canvass, where the golden rays
  Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering
  Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye
  Or rest a little on the lap of life.
  All hurry on & look upon the ground,
  Or glance unmarking at the passers by
  The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages
  All closed, in multiplied identity.
  The world seems one huge prison-house & court
  Where men are punished at the slightest cost,
  With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.