The fog is thick tonight and I thrill as I feel its damp caress upon my cheek as I wander on and on— seeking the tall cathedral. There is no hand so soothing as the hand of fog London fog ... The fog is thick tonight and before me looms a great white monster with shadowed lines of fancy, that weave an arabesque design. The air is chill and damp or does my frail human self tremble because I fear— fear that cold white monster whose writhing body (I know it has a writhing body though I cannot see) stretches back into the night. I fear or else I would not tremble as I wander on and on. The fog is thick tonight and hangs low in the valley like a velvet cloak of death— But lightly I move through it with joyous heart of youth. My only love is darkness. But this is not London it is Pittsburgh and the white cathedral is St. Paul— the valley is the Monongahela. I am not a London cockney but a vagabond of the streets seeking the tall cathedral for prayer and rest ... | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 13 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SONG OF THE SILENT LAND by JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS-SEEWIS FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE ABSTINENT LOVER by ABUL BAHR AUTUMN MALADE by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 16. AL-KAHHAR by EDWIN ARNOLD A POSTSCRIPT by BERNARD BARTON |