On a Major London Crossing

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

World, you just can’t show anything so fair!
What kind of dismal spirit could pass by
a sight so touching? Such nobility!
This City now has clothing on. Such flair!
A matutinal glory, for our Mayor –
cupolas, atria, auditoria, high
sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky,
shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air.
Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking
in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill;
I don’t know anything so worry-slaking!
Our liquid history rolls on at will.
O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking,
and that prodigious pump is lying still.