By John Davidson
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh
From west to east the sweet wind carried;
The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;
His light in all the city tarried:
The clouds on viewless columns bloomed
Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.
"Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy,
Of some occult magician's rearing,
Or swung in space of Heaven's grace,
Dissolving, dimly reappearing,
Afloat upon ethereal tides
St. Paul above the city rides!"
A rumour broke through the thin smoke
Enwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace,
The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,
The million-peopled lanes and alleys,
An ever-muttering prisoned storm,
The heart of London beating warm.