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 
Nice piece of writing, but rather too fanciful. Does London ever slumber? Are its murmurs ever faint? I think not.
Best wishes, Pete.
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Not really my thing
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Never liked poetry, but I like that .
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I spent too much schooling learning modern poetry to like it much these days!
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