The only gas lamp left in the street
Was sitting outside my door,
The rest now lay on a ******* heap
Had been cleared some years before,
But strangely, all of the mist that once
Obscured the street from sight,
Now hung and clung to that gas lamp frame
And darkened my door at night.

I’d stand and stare through my window there
Whenever the mist was high,
Painting the drains and window panes
In the glow of the gas lamp eye,
And those that passed in the street at night
Would flicker and then be gone,
Just like a scene on the silver screen
They would pause, then hurry along.

And that’s when I saw the girl out there
One misty night, about ten,
All dressed up for a late night show
She’d certainly go, but when?
She wore a dress in a style I’d thought
More in Victorian taste,
A woollen shawl and a bonnet, small,
And a bodice of Nottingham lace.

She’d disappear in the swirling mist
Then reappear in the glow,
She’d cling on tight to the gas lamp post,
She wasn’t ready to go,
Perhaps she waited for someone there
I thought, how lucky he’d be,
She looked so beautiful, standing where
I’d wish she was waiting for me.

She seemed to come every friday night
But only during a mist,
If only she would knock at my door
I thought, I couldn’t resist.
One friday night it began to rain,
And she looked in a great distress
Now I could venture to ask her in
If only to save her dress.

I stepped right up and opened the door,
Her image would flicker and fade,
I saw her turn, and stare from the glow
That the old gas lamp had made,
‘So there you are,’ came her breezy voice,
‘I’ve been waiting here, you see,
Every friday at ten o’clock
Since 1893.’

That was the moment the lamp blew out
In a strong and sudden gust,
The glow, the rain and the girl had gone
With the mist remaining, just,
I stand alone by the window pane
And I peer into the mist,
To search forever the girl who came
That I saw, but never kissed.

David Lewis Paget