To spoil her silk dress with the chair she sat in!
A dreadful dull demureness fill'd the place;
Room-attics might be caught on that first-floor;
No racy word from all the human race
There gathered—nothing to create a roar—
Weather and poetry their themes of grace—
They talked of snow, and Byron,—nothing Moore.
There broke no pun upon the startled ear—
Nothing the soul of etiquette to smother;
None were at home, but each on each did leer,