Laurence Binyon (1869–1943)

LONELY, save for a few faint stars, the sky

Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street

Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.

Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;

And all is dark, save where come flooding rays

From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure

Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,

Two children, all alone and no one by,

Holding their tatter’d frocks, through an airy maze

Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet,

Dance sedately: face to face they gaze,

Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.