The yellow fog lay thick and dim
O'er London city, far and wide;
It filled the spacious parks and squares,
where noble lords and ladies ride.
It filled the streets, the shops were dark,
The gas was burning through they day;
The Monument was blotted out,
And lost in gloom, the river lay.
But thicker still, and dark far,
The noisome smoke-cloud grimly fell
Amongst the narrow courts and lanes,
Where toiling people poorly dwell.
No sun above, no lofty sky,
No breezy breath of living air,
The heavy stagnant, stifling fog,
Crept here, and there, and every where.
Down seven steep and broken stairs,
Its chill unwelcome way it found,
And darkened with a deeper gloom,
A low, damp chamber, under-ground.
A Glimmering light was burning there,
Beside a woman on a bed;
A worn-out woman, a ghastly pale,
Departing to the peaceful dead.
Two little boys in threadbare clothes,
Stood white and trembling by her side,
And listening to his mother's words,
The youngest of them sadly cried.
The elder boy shed not a tear,
Not stirred a moment from his place
But with a corner of the sheet,
He wiped his mother's cold damp face.