On the Great Fog in London

Lost and bewilder'd in the thickening mist We stray amid th' irrefragable gloom, Nor can the penetrating lance of day Bleed the thick vein; behind a sizy cloud The rays of light, his orient messengers, Are intercepted, nor can steer their course, Wreckt on a coast of jet—even beauty's eye, Compos'd of azure, here is impotent, And, all-subduing, is itself subdued;

We jostle each, by vision unappriz'd Of meeting, till, like vessels, we run foul, And board each other in the sullen waste. This mockery of night, like vanity, Conceals us from ourselves, our shadows too, Lately our dear associates and compeers Have, like false lovers, left us in the Fog, To seek our own identity in vain. Nature herself seems in the vapours now, Dim is the prospect—shall we call it so? A purblind view, next to invisible? Or rather darkness visible to sight. 'Tis a black curtain drawn across the sky Disgustful, and shuts out the scenes of day. Or if a sun-beam glimmer—lo! the trees, As we approach 'em, seem like hanging webs Spun by the spider—even the great St. Paul, With his huge dome and cupola, appears A craggy precipice, rude, uninform'd; Or, like the ruins of an antient fort Upon a hill, when twilight shuts the day. The Morning, like a widow, all in weeds, Stalks forth incog, unwilling to be known, Veil'd and disguis'd behind the mask of Night.

Or, if meridian Phoebus show his face, He seems a ball of molten copper-ore Like a red beacon on a foggy coast.

Absolute shade maintains despotic sway, Palpable darkness, for we see by touch, If hearing not apprize us of approach, The coach or waggon by its rumbling warns To shun the danger, from our ears we see The threatening wheels, while often touch informs, When unawares we strike against a post, Like ships against a bank, or sunken rock, For sight is useless in so drear a blank. The beams of day, refracted in the cloud, Like birds in storms, are dubious where to fly, And waste their radiance on the tawny air. When fable night appears in ebon car, The lamps are feeble like the socket-snuffs Of tapers just expiring, rush-lights dim Like dying wicks within a dreary vault.

'Tis general mourning, every colour fades, Even the fine roseat on the virgin's cheek Turns to a livid blue, and charms no more. The soldiers in the Park seem undertakers, While every coach or carriage, like a hearse Displays the pageant of a funeral pomp.

Long streets of houses look like black perspectives Of charcoal prospects, the design of boys; While by no marks directed oft we miss Our well-known passage—boats upon the Thames Appear but as the buoys of distant ships, Or corks afloat upon the sullen flood.