Autumn is in the air,
The children are playing everywhere.
One dare not open this old door too wide;
It is so dark inside.
The hall smells of dust;
A narrow squirt of sunlight enters high,
The floor creaks, and I hear a sigh,
Rise in the gloom and die.
Through the hall, far away,
I just can see
The dingy garden with its wall and tree.
A yellow cat is sitting on the wall
Blinking toward the leaves that fall.
And now I hear a woman call
Some child from play.
Then all is still. Time must go
Ticking slow, glooming slow.
The evening will turn grey.
It is sad in London after two.
All, all the afternoon
What can old men, old women do?
It is sad in London when the gloom
Thickens, like wool,
In the corners of the room;
The sky is shot with steel,
Shot with blue.
The bells ring the slow time;
The chairs creak, the hours climb;
The sunlight lays a streak upon the floor.
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Comments about this poem (London Interior by Harold Monro )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Emily Jane Brontë
(30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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