George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans / 1819–1880)

In a London Drawingroom 1865

The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.

For view there are the houses opposite,

Cutting the sky with one long line of wall

Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch

Monotony of surface and of form 5

Without a break to hang a guess upon.

No bird can make a shadow as it flies,

For all its shadow, as in ways o’erhung

By thickest canvas, where the golden rays

Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering 10

Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye

Or rest a little on the lap of life.

All hurry on and look upon the ground

Or glance unmarking at the passersby.

The wheels are hurrying, too, cabs, carriages 15

All closed, in multiplied identity.

The world seems one huge prison-house and court

Where men are punished at the slightest cost,

With lowest rate of color, warmth, and joy.