Street Lamps


Softly they take their being, one by one,
From the lamp-lighter's hand, after the sun
Has dropped to dusk ... like little flowers they bloom
Set in long rows amid the growing gloom. . . .

Who he who lights them is, I do not know,
Except that, every eve, with footfall slow
And regular, he passes by my room
And sets his gusty flowers of light a-bloom.
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