From a window late at night, the speaker watches a London street after it has been watered. The wet pavement shines under cold white lamps and looks like a slow-moving river striped with silver and black. Cabs pass one by one, tramps doze on ledges, and night-walkers drift past. The city feels squalid and sinister, and the shining street seems to lead nowhere.
Opposite the window, the moon hangs clear and round in the plum-colored darkness, but it cannot compete with the bright artificial lights below. It looks thin and lustreless, yet the speaker loves it. The moon is familiar; the city is alien. The mood is one of lonely observation and quiet alienation, with the cold glitter of the city set against the faint comfort of the moon.