London, My Beautiful

London

- F. S. Flint

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 the little 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 treetops,

That my blood may be cooled