Poetry Archives

Evening falls on the smoky walls,
   And the railings drip with rain,
And I will cross the old river
   To see my girl again.

The great and solemn-gliding tram,
   Love’s still-mysterious car,
Has many a light of gold and white,
   And a single dark red star.

I know a garden in a street
   Which no one ever knew;
I know a rose beyond the Thames,
   Where flowers are pale and few.