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 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 tree-tops, that my blood may be cooled by the wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOON by HAYDEN CARRUTH AN INVITE TO ETERNITY by JOHN CLARE ON STURMINSTER FOOT-BRIDGE by THOMAS HARDY THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM, THE MURDERER by THOMAS HOOD SONNET: THE RARITY OF GENIUS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE SNOB by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |