I
London, my beautiful,it is not the sunsetnor the pale green skyshimmering through the curtainof the silver birch,nor the quietness;it is not the hoppingof birdsupon the lawn,nor the darknessstealing over all thingsthat moves me.But as the moon creeps slowlyover the tree-topsamong the stars,I think of herand the glow her passingsheds on men.London, my beautiful,I will climbinto the branchesto the moonlit tree-tops,that my blood may be cooledby the wind.F. S. Flint
London, my beautiful,it is not the sunsetnor the pale green skyshimmering through the curtainof the silver birch,nor the quietness;it is not the hoppingof birdsupon the lawn,nor the darknessstealing over all thingsthat moves me.But as the moon creeps slowlyover the tree-topsamong the stars,I think of herand the glow her passingsheds on men.London, my beautiful,I will climbinto the branchesto the moonlit tree-tops,that my blood may be cooledby the wind.F. S. Flint
London, my beautiful,it is not the sunsetnor the pale green skyshimmering through the curtainof the silver birch,nor the quietness;it is not the hoppingof birdsupon the lawn,nor the darknessstealing over all thingsthat moves me.
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 slowlyover the tree-topsamong the stars,I think of herand the glow her passingsheds on men.
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 climbinto the branchesto the moonlit tree-tops,that my blood may be cooledby the wind.
London, my beautiful,
I will climb
into the branches
to the moonlit tree-tops,
that my blood may be cooled
by the wind.
F. S. Flint
F. S. Flint