Preludes I
The winter evening settlesdown
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gust shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from cavant 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.
-T.S. Eliot
