A lamplit window,
At the top of a tenement house near Poplar High Street,
Shines fluently out of the night;
And looking upward I see
That the bricks of the houses are bright and fair to the eye.
There are no flowers in West India Dock Road;
Nothing but brick and stone, and iron and spent air.
But when rough brick and stone are a shrine for beauty,
They become themselves beautiful.
Perhaps if this person encloses within himself
Beautiful thoughts and amiable intentions,
His insignificant frame may acquire
The noble outlines of that tenement house.