Guilt
John Betjeman
 
 
The clock is frozen in the tower,
    The thickening fog with sooty smell
Has blanketed the motor power
    Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely sound
Intensify the silence round.
 
I haven't hope. I haven't faith.
    I live two lives and sometimes three.
The lives I live make life a death
    For those who have to live with me.
Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.
 
With breastplate of self-righteousness
    And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows less
    I hurry off to make retreat,
For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light
To lead me out into the night.
 
It glitters icy, thin and plain,
    And leads me down to Waterloo---
Into a warm electric train
    Which travels sorry Surrey through
And crystal-hung the clumps of pine
Stand deadly still beside the line.