The streets are full of lights and loves,
Soft gowns and flutter of soiled doves.”
He turned with a faint sigh, and began to pass on down Chancery Lane.
“Oh, London!” he mused, “thy surface may be wonderful and beautiful; but below—what are you below the surface?”
“The human moths about the light
Dash and cling 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