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Home  »  Modern British Poetry  »  London

Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern British Poetry. 1920.

F. S. Flint1885–1960

London

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.