The ghost of life: The hot unwholesome wind

I’m not generally speaking a fan of Christina Rossetti, or any of the Pre-Raphaelites, tbh. Perhaps, when I’m (say) locked in the house for extended periods of time, I should revisit that.

But my entry for National Poetry Month today is Rossetti’s “The Plague”. She’s not specific as to the disease, but her depiction would be accurate for any of the pandemics in human history, including our current one. Even in “advanced” First World countries, we’re seeing human corpses being stored in refrigerated 18-wheelers parked outside of overwhelmed hospitals, and anonymous white coffins lined up in long ditches for either temporary or permanent burial.

As someone has said, history may not repeat itself, but it sure does rhyme.

“The Plague”

‘Listen, the last stroke of death’s noon has struck—

The plague is come,’ a gnashing Madman said,

And laid him down straightway upon his bed.

His writhed hands did at the linen pluck;

Then all is over. With a careless chuck

Among his fellows he is cast. How sped

His spirit matters little: many dead

Make men hard-hearted.— ‘Place him on the truck.

Go forth into the burial-ground and find

Room at so much a pitful for so many.

One thing is to be done; one thing is clear:

Keep thou back from the hot unwholesome wind,

That it infect not thee.’ Say, is there any

Who mourneth for the multitude dead here?