They have watered the street，
It shines in the glare of lamps，
Cold， white lamps，
And lies
Like a slow-moving river，
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it，
One，
And then another，
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges，
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister，
With the silver-barred street in the midst，
Slow-moving，
A river leading nowhere.
Opposite my window，
The moon cuts，
Clear and round，
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city：
It is too bright.
It has white lamps，
And glitters coldly.
I stand in the window and watch the
moon.
She is thin and lustreless，
But I love her.
I know the moon，
And this is an alien city.