Poems (Angier)/The Old-Fashioned Fire
THE OLD-FASHIONED FIRE.
A song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire,
With its andirons made of brass, iron, or wire;
The tongs and the shovel, that shine like pure gold,
The bellows that children love dearly to hold;
While, guarding the sitting-room carpet with care,
Stands a high lattice fender, with sentinel air.
With its andirons made of brass, iron, or wire;
The tongs and the shovel, that shine like pure gold,
The bellows that children love dearly to hold;
While, guarding the sitting-room carpet with care,
Stands a high lattice fender, with sentinel air.
The dry chestnut wood, as it snaps out a spark,
How it rings, like a pistol popped off at a mark;
While the roar of the flame, as higher it rises,
Would deafen the judge in a court of assizes;
And O! how forgetful a man must become,
If he cannot remember the tea-kettle's hum,
How it rings, like a pistol popped off at a mark;
While the roar of the flame, as higher it rises,
Would deafen the judge in a court of assizes;
And O! how forgetful a man must become,
If he cannot remember the tea-kettle's hum,
As it hangs on the crane, just over the blaze,
And swings on the hook,—like a song of old days
Will its murmur still linger on memory's ear
Till all is forgot, I was wont to hold dear!
But brightest of all, round this old-fashioned hearth
Were once beaming fair faces, no more seen on earth.
And swings on the hook,—like a song of old days
Will its murmur still linger on memory's ear
Till all is forgot, I was wont to hold dear!
But brightest of all, round this old-fashioned hearth
Were once beaming fair faces, no more seen on earth.
But their memory comes o'er me, like songs and sweet flowers,
To gladden my spirit in sorrow's dark hours;
Though welcome their presence, not long may it stay,
For like song and sweet flower, they have faded away!
Then a song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire,
Though stove, grate, and furnace, our moderns admire.
To gladden my spirit in sorrow's dark hours;
Though welcome their presence, not long may it stay,
For like song and sweet flower, they have faded away!
Then a song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire,
Though stove, grate, and furnace, our moderns admire.
I love and I long for the old-fashioned days,
When all kind thoughts seemed warmed into life by its blaze;
And O! how I yearn for a sight of that home,
From whose cheerful hearth-side no more would I roam;
But—my lamp's going out, and I've broken my lyre,
While tuning its strings by this old-fashioned fire.
When all kind thoughts seemed warmed into life by its blaze;
And O! how I yearn for a sight of that home,
From whose cheerful hearth-side no more would I roam;
But—my lamp's going out, and I've broken my lyre,
While tuning its strings by this old-fashioned fire.