THE furnace tolls the knell of falling steam, The coal supply is virtually done, And at this price, indeed it does not seem As though we could afford another ton. Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite; The radiators lose their temperature: How ill avail, on such a frosty night, The "short and simple flannels of the poor." Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid, The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep, No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid: We cannot cook again till coal is cheap. Can Morris-chair or papier-mache bust Revivify the failing pressure-gauge? Chop up the grand piano if you must, And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage! Full many a can of purest kerosene The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean To bring my morning coffee to a boil. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A PACIFIST FRIEND by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE GRASSHOPPER; TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTON by RICHARD LOVELACE THE BOOK OF THE LETTER, SELECTION by ABRAHAM ABULAFIA THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): MEDEA BETRAYED by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS WHAT MAKES A NATION GREAT? by ALEXANDER BLACKBURN |