Frank Stewart Flint - Four Poems in Unrhymed Cadence - I. lyrics

London, my beautiful, it is not the sunset nor the pale green sky shimmering through the curtain of the silver birch, nor the quietness; it is not the hopping of the little birds upon the lawn, nor the darkness stealing over all things that moves me. But as the moon creeps slowly over the tree-tops among the stars, I think of her and the glow her pa**ing sheds on men. London, my beautiful, I will climb into the branches to the moonlit tree-tops, that my blood may be cooled by the wind.