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T.S. Eliot

Prelude

The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burn-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about his feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.