I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.
  Along the wharves by the water-house,
  And through the cavernous slaughter-house,
  I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
  And eyes tumultuous as the gems
  Of moons and lamps in the full Thames
  When dusk sails wavering down the Pool.

Shuddering, a purple street-arc burns
  Where I watch always. From the banks
  Dolorously the shipping clanks.
  And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane,
  And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
  But when the crowing sirens blare,
  I with another ghost am lain.