In Hyde Park

The white mist walks between the trees
 In silver gown;
 Her mystic floating draperies
 The branches drown;
 And lurking there with eager leer
 And wonder new,
 The lamps inquisitively peer
 Their fingers through.  
  The world sighs wearily, with pain
 Drawing tired breath;
 The stars are like a silver rain;
 And down beneath
 On Night's smooth garment running o'er
 In sullen flood,
 The city, like a festering sore,
 Oozes warm blood.