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.