Fog covers everywhere.It is along river,where it rolls among aits and green meadows.The river flows defiled among the tiers of shipping and the water problems of a huge city.Fog is over the
Essex's swamp.Fog is on the Kentish hills.Fog slides into cabooses of collierbrigs.Fog covers the yards and hovers in the rigging of great ships.Fog drops on the gunwales of barges and small boats.Fog is in the eyes.Fog is in the throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners.It wheezes by the firesides of their ward.Fog is in the stem,in the bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper.Fog is in his close cabin.It cruelly pinches the toes and fingers of his shievering little prentice boy on deck.Change people are on the bridges.They peep over the parapets into a nether sky of fog.Fog is all around them as if they were up in a baloon.