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?