A near horizon whose sharp jags 
Cut brutally into a sky 
Of leaden heaviness, and crags 
Of houses lift their masonry 
Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie 
And snort, outlined against the gray 
Of lowhung cloud. I hear the sigh 
The goaded city gives, not day 
Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay. 

Below, straight streets, monotonous, 
From north and south, from east and west, 
Stretch glittering; and luminous 
Above, one tower tops the rest 
And holds aloft man's constant quest: 
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed 
Of millions, robber of the best 
Which earth can give, the vulgar creed 
Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed. 

O Night! Whose soothing presence brings 
The quiet shining of the stars. 
O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings 
So intimately close that scars 
Are hid from our own eyes. Beggars 
By day, our wealth is having night 
To burn our souls before altars 
Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light 
Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright. 

Where art thou hiding, where thy peace? 
This is the hour, but thou art not. 
Will waking tumult never cease? 
Hast thou thy votary forgot? 
Nature forsakes this man-begot 
And festering wilderness, and now 
The long still hours are here, no jot 
Of dear communing do I know; 
Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!