Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/164

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
AURORA LEIGH.
155
Exasperating the unaccustomed airWith hideous interfusion: you'd supposeA finished generation, dead of plague,Swept outward from their graves into the sun,The moil of death upon them. What a sight!A holiday of miserable menIs sadder than a burial-day of kings.
They clogged the streets, they oozed into the churchIn a dark slow stream, like blood. To see that sight,The noble ladies stood up in their pews,Some pale for fear, a few as red for hate,Some simply curious, some just insolent,And some in wondering scorn,—'What next? what next?'These crushed their delicate rose-lips from the smileThat misbecame them in a holy place,With broidered hems of perfumed handkerchiefs;Those passed the salts with confidence of eyesAnd simultaneous shiver of moiré silk;While all the aisles, alive and black with heads,Crawled slowly toward the altar from the street,As bruised snakes crawl and hiss out of a holeWith shuddering involutions, swaying slowFrom right to left, and then from left to right,In pants and pauses. What an ugly crestOf faces, rose upon you everywhere,From that crammed mass! you did not usuallySee faces like them in the open day:They hide in cellars, not to make you madAs Romney Leigh is.—Faces?—O my God,
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.