The evenfall, so slow on hills, hath shot 
Far down into the valley's cold extreme, 
Untimely midnight; spire and roof and stream 
Like fleeing spectres, shudder and are not. 
The Hampstead hollies, from their sylvan plot 
Yet cloudless, lean to watch as in a dream, 
From chaos climb with many a sudden gleam, 
London, one moment fallen and forgot.

Her booths begin to flare; and gases bright 
Prick door and window; all her streets obscure 
Sparkle and swarm with nothing true or sure, 
Full as a marsh of mist and winking light; 
Heaven thickens over, Heaven that cannot cure 
Her tear by day, her fevered smile by night.