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Saturday Poem: ‘Fog’ by Louise Imogen Guiney

Like bodiless water passing in a sigh,
Thro’ palsied streets the fatal shadows flow,
And in their sharp disastrous undertow
Suck in the morning sun, and all the sky.
The towery vista sinks upon the eye,
As if it heard the Hebrew bugles blow,
Black and dissolved; nor could the founders know
How what was built so bright should daily die.

Thy mood with man’s is broken and blent in,
City of Stains! and ache of thought doth drown
The primitive light in which thy life began;
Great as thy dole is, smirch├Ęd with his sin,
Greater and elder yet the love of man
Full in thy look, tho’ the dark visor’s down.

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Saturday Poem: ‘In the Reading Room of the British Museum’ by Louise Imogen Guiney

Praised be the moon of books! that doth above
A world of men, the fallen Past behold,
And fill the spaces else so void and cold
To make a very heaven again thereof;
As when the sun is set behind a grove,
And faintly unto nether ether rolled,
All night his whiter image and his mould
Grows beautiful with looking on her love.

Thou therefore, moon of so divine a ray,
Lend to our steps both fortitude and light!
Feebly along a venerable way
They climb the infinite, or perish quite;
Nothing are days and deeds to such as they,
While in this liberal house thy face is bright.