Search results
A Ballad of London. AH, London! London! our delight, Whose day begins when day is done. The iron lilies of the Strand. Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves. For this is London, this is life! Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.
London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at night, Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done. Lamp after lamp against the sky Opens a sudden beaming eye, Leaping alight on either hand, The iron lilies of the Strand. Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover, With jewelled eyes, to catch the lover, The streets are full ...
May 13, 2011 · Richard Le Gallienne 1866 (Liverpool) – 1947. AH, London! London! our delight, Whose day begins when day is done. The iron lilies of the Strand. Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves. For this is London, this is life! Poor worms that have not eyes or wings. To keep this jungle-flower bright.
- 1,146
- AABB CCDD EEFF AAGG HHII JJAA XXKK LLXK
- Iambic tetrameter
- 205
The streets are full of lights and loves, Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves. The human moths about the light. Dash and cling close in dazed delight, And burn and laugh, the world and wife, For this is London, this is life! Upon thy petals butterflies, But at thy root, some say, there lies, A world of weeping trodden things,
May 13, 2011 · AH, London! London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at night, Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done. Lamp after lamp against the sky. Opens a sudden beaming eye, Leaping alight on either hand, The iron lilies of the Strand.
Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves. The human moths about the light. Dash and cling close in dazed delight, And burn and laugh, the world and wife, For this is London, this is life! Upon thy petals butterflies, But at thy root, some say, there lies, A world of weeping trodden things, Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.
Dec 3, 2019 · Richard Le Gallienne, ‘A Ballad of London’. Le Gallienne (1866-1947) was inspired to become a writer after attending a lecture given by Oscar Wilde in 1883. A few years later, he was penning poems to the capital such as this, which uses many of the familiar features of decadent poetry to praise the bustling metropolis at night: Ah, London!
