I stood, one Sunday morning, Before a large church door, The congregation gathered, And carriages a score, -- From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before. Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set, -- But above the cross there glistened A golden Coronet. For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide; Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide, -- There might be good thoughts in her, For all her evil pride. But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within, On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline, -- The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin. The few free-seats were crowded Where she could rest and pray; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array, -- "God's house holds no poor sinners," She sighed, and crept away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A WAR SONG TO ENGLISHMEN by WILLIAM BLAKE SOTTO VOCE; TO EDWARD THOMAS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE SONNET: THE HUMAN SEASONS by JOHN KEATS HYMN TO THE NAIADS by MARK AKENSIDE WHY DRINK WINE by HENRY ALDRICH ECHOES OF SPRING: 4 by MATHILDE BLIND TO W.A. AND H.H. ON THEIR DEPARTURE TO EUROPE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |