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SPRING IN LONDON
There’s one that calleth in the street,
Merry of voice, named Wickedness.
And many a man will push and grope
His way towards a sound so sweet.
—Later, the sense thereof no less,
He hears: “There is no Hope!”
One croucheth by, fordone with woe.
All know her—she is Suffering.
The winds wax clammy cold as Death,
While, shuddering, thro’ her rags they go.
Sharp her unsobbing voice doth ring:
“There is no Hope!” she saith.
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