Our Æon, with Promethean joy:—
A joy from central darkness mined.
Of regions haunted by the Hun;
Thence baled with cost of countless gold
To Lambeth's marish, and in mould
Of seeming-waxen tapers run:
Whose radiance is as that of moons
Innumerous, making day of night;
With most intensity of light,
Emblazing fashion's gay saloons.