The poem
The clock is frozen in the tower, The thickening fog with sooty smell Has blanketed the motor power Which turns the London streets to hell; And footsteps with their lonely sound Intensify the silence round.
I haven't hope. I haven't faith. I live two lives and sometimes three. The lives I live make life a death For those who have to live with me. Knowing the virtues that I lack, I pat myself upon the back.
With breastplate of self-righteousness And shoes of smugness on my feet, Before the urge in me grows less I hurry off to make retreat. For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light To lead me out into the night.
It glitters icy, thin and plain, And leads me down to Waterloo- Into a warm electric train Which travels sorry Surrey through And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine Stand deadly still beside the line.
Reprinted with the permission of John Murray (Publishers) Ltd.