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In a London Drawingroom

The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
   For view there are the houses opposite
   Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
   Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
   Monotony of surface & of form
   Without a break to hang a guess upon.
   No bird can make a shadow as it flies,
   For all is shadow, as in ways o’erhung
   By thickest canvass, where the golden rays
 Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering
 Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye
 Or rest a little on the lap of life.
 All hurry on & look upon the ground,
 Or glance unmarking at the passers by
 The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages
 All closed, in multiplied identity.
 The world seems one huge prison-house & court
 Where men are punished at the slightest cost,
 With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.
Other works by George Eliot...



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