VOCAL yet voiceless, lingering, lambent, white
With the wide wings of evening on the fell,
The tranquil vale, the enchanted citadel,-
Another day swoons to another night.
Speak low: from bare Blencathra's purple height
The sound o' the ghyll falls furled; and, loath to go,
A continent of cloud its plaited snow
Wears far away athwart a lake of light.

is it the craft of hell that while we lie
Enshaded, lulled, beneath heaven's breezeless sky,
The garrulous clangours and assoiled shows
Of London's burrowing mazes haunt us yet?
City, forgive me: mother of joys and woes
Thy shadow is here, and lo! our eyes are wet.