poem by Henry Ernest Hardy

O London town has many moods, 

and mingled mongst its many broods 

a leavening of saints. 

And ever up and down its streets 

if one has eyes to see, one meets 

stuff that an artist paints. 

I've seen a back street bathed in blue, 

such as the soul of whistler new, 

a smudge of amber light 

where some fried fish shop plied its trade, 

a perfect note of color made. 

O it was exquisite. 

I once came through St. James Park 

betwixt the sunset and the dark, 

and O the mystery of gray and green and violet, 

I would I never might forget that evening harmony. 

I hold it true that God is there. 

If beauty breaks through anywhere. 

And His most blessed feet 

who once life's roughest roadway trod, 

who came as man to show us God, 

still pass along the street.