[J. H. E. Schröder]
Long hours the asphalt, grimed, blistered and old,
A haggard monotone of weary grey,
Smoulders in dull hostility. The day
With challenging splendour, arrogant blue and gold,.
Mocks at the humbled ugliness; a bold
Vagabond wind flings in its face his stray
Litter of insult; urchin dust-whirls play
Their fitful games in the gutters. … But behold—
The dusk falls, and along the purpling street
Night strews her silence: cool and still, the air
Enfolds the throbbing hours in a soft
Forgetfulness. The kindly shadows meet
In noiseless converse, and the lamps aloft
Caress with silver pavements suddenly fair.