Beneath the deep veranda’s shade, When bats begin to fly, I sit me down and watch—alas!— Another evening die. Blood-red behind the sere ferash She rises through the haze. Sainted Diana! can that be The Moon of Other Days? Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith, Sweet Saint of Kensington! Say, was it ever thus at Home The Moon of August shone, When arm in arm we wandered long Through Putney’s evening haze, And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath The moon of Other Days? But Wandle’s stream is Sutlej now, And Putney’s evening haze The dust that half a hundered kine Before my window raise. Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist The seething city looms, In place of Putney’s golden gorse The sickly babul blooms. Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust, And bid the pie-dog yell, Draw from the drain its typhoid-term, From each bazaar its smell; Yea, suck the fever from the tank And sap my strength therewith: Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face To little Kitty Smith!