O Kettle! ’tis a piteous sight to see
Thy silver cheeks disfigur’d by the coals
While thro’ thy lips the murm’ring vapour rolls
And all sit at their ease — save thou and me!
Yet breathing bland and dulcet melody
Thou sittest still — but O! — Alas! — the more
Thy voice is heard, the sooner is thy store
Of water wasted ere we drink our tea!
Sweet singing Kettle! — while I gaze on thee
I think how like the liquid element
Love when it boils too fast, is quickly spent
And ends in smoke and drear vacuity —
Too oft like thee, bright tea-kettle of tin,
All gloss without, all emptiness within!
Rodelinda Delphine S —