Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/108

 And vast piles of tropic fruits and floral
 * Marvels seemed to mock November's gloom.

But what prowls near princely mart and dwelling,
 * Whence through many a thundering thoroughfare

Rich folk roll on cushions softly swelling
 * To the week-day feast and Sunday prayer?

Yea, who prowl there, hunger-nipped and pallid,
 * Breathing nightmares limned upon the gloom?

'Tis but human rubbish, gaunt and squalid,
 * Whom their country spurns for lack of room.

In their devious track we mutely follow,
 * Mutely climb dim flights of oozy stairs,

Where through gap-toothed, mizzling roof the yellow
 * Pestilent fog blends with the fetid air.

Through the unhinged door's discordant slamming
 * Ring the gruesome sounds of savage strife—