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Poem by Henry Luttrel
The November Fog of London
FIRST, at the dawn of lingering day, It rises of an ashy gray; Then deepening with a sordid stain Of yellow, like a lionТs mane. Vapor importunate and dense It wars at once with every sense. The ears escape not. All around Returns a dull, unwonted sound. Loath to stand still, afraid to stir, The chilled and puzzled passenger, Oft blundering from the pavement, fails To feel his way along the rails; Or at the crossings, in the roll Of every carriage dreads the pole. Scarce an eclipse with pall so dun Blots from the face of heaven the sun. But soon a thicker, darker cloak Wraps all the town; behold, the smoke, Which steam-compelling trade disgorges From all her furnaces and forges, In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise, Descends rejected from the skies; Till struggling day, extinguished quite, At noon gives place to candle-light.
Poem Theme: London
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