Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many
I had not thought death had undone, so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where St Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
-- T S Eliot 1922
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