From "Preludes" by T. S. Eliot

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o' clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust trampled street
With all the muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
that are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.