The fret and fever of the day are o’er, / And London slumbers, but with murmurs faint, / Like Ocean, when she folds her waves to sleep: / ‘Tis the pure hour for poetry and thought; / When passions sink, and man surveys the heavens, / And feels himself immortal.
Robert Montgomery (b.1972), London, Religion and Poetry: Being Selections Spiritual and Moral
CabbieBlog 
When I lived there, London’s murmurs were never faint, and it rarely slumbered. I considered myself lucky to get four hour’s sleep most nights.
Cheers, Pete.
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You’d think he was writing about London in the 17th century, not when we were there.
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More a ‘romantic notion’, I reckon.
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