The Three Hills

As I stand waiting in the rain For the foggy hoot of the London train, Gazing at silent wall and lamp. And post and rail and platform damp. What is this power that comes to my sight. That I see a night without the night. That I see them clear, yet look them through the silvery things and the darkly blue that the solid wall seems soft as death. A wavering and unanchored wraith. And rails that shine and stones that stream Unsubstantial as a dream .