Across the bridge, where in the morning blow 
The wrinkled tide turns homeward, and is fain 
Homeward to drag the balck sea-goer's chain, 
And the long yards by Dowgate dipping low; 
Across dispeopled ways, patient and slow, 
Saint Magnus and Saint Dunstan call in vain: 
>From Wren's forgotten belfries, in the rain, 
Down the blank wharves the dropping octaves go.

Forbid not these! Tho' no man heed, they shower 
A subtle beauty on the empty hour, 
>From all their dark throats aching and outblown; 
Aye in the prayerless places welcome most, 
Like the last gull that up a naked coast 
Deploys her white and steady wing, alone.