Piccadilly circus at night

by D. H. Lawrence

Street-Walkers.

WHEN into the night the yellow light is roused like
   dust above the towns,
Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in
   the midst of the downs,
Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain
   along the street,
Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in ex-
   pectancy to meet
The luminous mist which the poor things wist was
   dawn arriving across the sky,
When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town
   has driven so high.
All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,
   All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in
      the sea,
Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round,
      and keep
   The shores of this innermost ocean alive and
      illusory.
Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning
      looked in at their eyes
   And the Cyprian's pavement-roses are gone, and
      now it is we
Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a
      Paradise
   On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of
      the town-dark sea.