The Moon of Other Days
Beneath the deep veranda's shade,When bats begin to fly,I sit me down and watch—alas!—Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere ferashShe rises through the haze.Sainted Diana! can that beThe Moon of Other Days?
Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,Sweet Saint of Kensington!Say, was it ever thus at HomeThe Moon of August shone,When arm in arm we wandered longThrough Putney's evening haze,And Hammersmith was Heaven beneathThe Moon of Other Days?
But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now,And Putney's evening hazeThe dust that half a hundred kineBefore my window raise.Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mistThe seething city looms,In place of Putney's golden gorseThe sickly babul blooms.
Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,And bid the pie-dog yell,Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,From each bazaar its smell;Yea, suck the fever from the tankAnd sap my strength therewith:Thank Heaven, you show a smiling faceTo little Kitty Smith!
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.