Edict

                   Edict

How dull the gilded dome seems under clouds

Of London gray.  The perfect, swerving shape

Looks saddened as if wearing mourning shrouds,

Or dirtiness, or veils of thinnest crepe.

Such beauty should not be degraded thus.

But London, unremorseful, just goes on

As usual, and, worse, the fumes of bus,

And car, and lorry almost surely spawn

Sleazed layers of pollution on the curves.

Still, rain from clouds may wash this all away

So in the end the clouded sky preserves

The loveliness, returning that array

The soul desires.  The dome is meant to be

A spiritual design, a gold decree.