THE air is damp, the skies are leaden:
The ominous lull of impending rain
Presses upon me, and seems to deaden
Every sense but a sense of pain.
Hopes of getting again to London
Lapse into utter and grim despair;
Shall I do my verses or leave them undone?
I don't know, and I don't much care.
I sit in a silence broken only
Now and again by the wandering breeze,
A breeze in the garden, wandering lonely,
Or playing the fool with shivering trees.
I have slept all night—should I call it sleeping
Out of all sound but the pattering drops
Against the pane, and the wild wind keeping
Revelry up in the chimney-tops.
I want the hum of my working brothers—
London bustle and London strife—
To count as one in three million others;—
How can I live away from life?