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.
