A book of London, long ago—
The roads filled up with shit and snow,
Street Arabs at a chestnut stall,
Pinched faces in the brazier’s glow.
A feral cat upon a wall,
An apple-seller’s sheep-shank shawl,
Slumped horses, thin and underfed,
Cobbles glistening in a squall.
Pert missy with a loaf of bread,
Her bonnet flounced about her head,
A beau’s smile— was it Dick or Tom?
An alley only thieves would tread.
All dead, all dead. All dead and gone,
Where once a shuttered lens had shone,
The marvel is that life goes on,
The marvel is that life goes on.