The poem
THE TWINKLING mists of green and gold Afloat in the abyss of air, From out the window high and old We watched together there.
The monstrous fabric of the town Lay black below; the cries of pain Came to our ears from up and down The dimly-lighted lane.
Olive, your eyes were turned to me, Seeking a soul to sympathise: I wondered what that glow might be, Olive, within your eyes.
Into your trembling words there passed The sorrow that was sighed through you: Pity, a breath from out the vast, From unknown hollows blew.