Classic Poem

I love thee, London! for thy many men,
And for thy mighty deeds and scenes of glory;
For all great thoughts and things into thy story
Drain themselves—of the heart or hand or pen.
I love thee in all hours: the most, though, when
The busy heart of universal man
Seems throbbing through thee, without pause or plan
Yet, haply well, to God 's all loving ken.
Thou art the greatest thing on the earth's face
That man hath made; thou art what man can do.
Look on it, Lord! and greaten it with Thy grace.
Hundreds of shrines therein are Thine;—too few.
Let the world worship God ! ye cities, bow!
And last and lowest, thou, proud London, thou!