Stepp’d in—one Friday, at the close of day—
And every head was turn’d another way—
Watching the grander guest. It seem’d to rise
Bulky and slow upon the southern brink
Of the horizon—fann’d by sultry sighs—
So black and threatening, I cannot think
Of any simile, except the skies
Miss Wiggins sometime shades in Indian ink—
Miss-shapen blotches of such heavy vapour,
They seem a deal more solid than her paper.