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By John Davidson

the sky a lowly sigh From west to east the sweet wind carried; The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;
 * His light in all the city tarried:

The clouds on viewless columns bloomed Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.

"Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy,
 * Of some occult magician's rearing,

Or swung in space of Heaven's grace,
 * Dissolving, dimly reappearing,

Afloat upon ethereal tides St. Paul above the city rides!" A rumour broke through the thin smoke
 * Enwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace,

The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,
 * The million-peopled lanes and alleys,

An ever-muttering prisoned storm, The heart of London beating warm.

The Yellow Book—Vol. I.