London: A Sonnet Poem by David Mitchell

City of dreams destroy'd and hopes fulfill'd,
Of Johnson, Newton, Sullivan, and Wren!
My soul now longs to visit you again;
Therefore with thoughts of this place gently thrill'd,
Descend, my Muse, that long was softly still'd,
And sing of London's glorious women, men,
And sites where history was written then
And will be written, till Time's life is chill'd
At once, and Time is not. But till the end,
May you ne'er be forgotten, and bring forth
Ripe fruit, who will ameliorate their home:
Not but this town, but all the world. A friend
Of genius may you be: be always worth
Your name: the Eternal City is not Rome.