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I am the
ghost of Shadwell Stair.
Along the wharves by the
water-house,
And through the dripping
slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.
Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
And eyes
tumultuous as the gems
Of moons and lamps in the
lapping Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the
pool.
Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
Where I watch always; from the banks
Dolorously the
shipping clanks,
And after me a strange tide turns.
I walk till the stars of London wane
And dawn
creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
But when the crowing
syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.
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