That now are woven on the looms of sleep
That now are only music of the wind.
1918
London grows sad at evening,
And we at the windows sit
To watch her moods,
Wearying with her.
Even a noise of laughter from the street
That now are woven on the looms of sleep
That now are only music of the wind.
1918
London grows sad at evening,
And we at the windows sit
To watch her moods,
Wearying with her.
Even a noise of laughter from the street