Thou standest beside the wet highway
Of this decayed Rome,
Spare us the beauty
Of fruit-trees!
London my Beautiful
I will climb
For upon my head has the moonlight
Fallen
Splashing down moss-tarnished steps
It falls, the water;
Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
They come shaking in triumph their long grey hair:
They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
Have me in the strong loneliness
of sunless cliffs
And the rain dribbles down from his heels and his crown,
From wet stone to wet stone.