the second group

Fog is everywhere. Fog is up the river,where it flows among green aits and meadows,fog is down the river,where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great city. Fog is on the Essex marshes,fog is on the Kentish heights. Fog is creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs;fog is lying out on the yards and hovering in the figging of great ships;fog is dropping on the gunwales of borges and smallboats. Fog is in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners wheezing by the firesides of their words;god is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper,down in his close cabin;fog is cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering littie prentice boy on deck.Chance people on the bridges are peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog,with fog all arund them,as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.