Eros in Piccadilly
Winged figure,
Bow and arrow pointing at nothing
Leaping, never leaving
The stone pedestal
Where weeping fountains mourn
The loss of your never having left.
Buildings crowd down
As once they rose,
Crowning achievements
In this great edifice of a city;
But now they hinder, fine and white
Even the thinnest shaft.
We find a mocking glory
In the technicolour hoardings
That tell us all we might devour
To stifle the burning arrow's bite
And laugh, and flash out at Eros's night.
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