 | In the Dorian Mood |  |
46
AT CITOYENNE TUSSAUD'S
The place is full of whispers—‘Mark you, sirs,
This one is he who struck our moralists mute
Before the crime which proved him wholly brute!
Mark well his face!’ The gaping sight-seers
Nudge one another, and no tongue but stirs
In awe-struck comment on hat, coat, and boot,
Mean smirking smile, base air of smug repute,
Worn by some prince of viler murderers!
This one is he who struck our moralists mute
Before the crime which proved him wholly brute!
Mark well his face!’ The gaping sight-seers
Nudge one another, and no tongue but stirs
In awe-struck comment on hat, coat, and boot,
Mean smirking smile, base air of smug repute,
Worn by some prince of viler murderers!
Nay, I like most these lank-tressed doctrinaires
Who cluster round their powerless guillotine;
Aquiline, delicate, dark, their thin cheeks mired
By their own blood—these Carriers and Héberts:
They only look so proud and so serene:
They only look so infinitely tired!
Who cluster round their powerless guillotine;
Aquiline, delicate, dark, their thin cheeks mired
By their own blood—these Carriers and Héberts:
They only look so proud and so serene:
They only look so infinitely tired!
| In the Dorian Mood | |