  London, my beautiful, it is not the sunset nor the pale green sky shimmering through the curtain of the silver birch, nor the quietness; it is not the hopping of birds upon the lawn, nor the darkness stealing over all things that moves me. But as the moon creeps slowly over the tree-tops among the stars, I think of her and the glow her passing sheds on men. London, my beautiful, I will climb into the branches to the moonlit tree-tops, that my blood may be cooled by the wind. F. S. Flint
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