richard mitchley - from piccadilly in august by john freeman lyrics
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now the trees rest: the moon has taught them sleep
like drowsy wings of bats are all their leaves
clinging together. girls at ease who fold
fair hands upon white necks and through dusk fields
walk all content,+of them the trees have taken
their way of evening rest; the yellow moon
with her pale gold has lit their dreams that lisp
on the wind’s murmuring lips
and low beyond
burn those bright lamps beneath the moon more bright
lamps that but flash and sparkle and light not
the inward eye and musing thought, nor reach
where, poplar+like, that tall+built campanile
lifts to the neighbouring moon her head and feels
the pale gold like an ocean laving her
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