THE sky is glowing in one ruddy sheet; -- A cry of fire! resounds from door to door; -- And westward still the thronging people pour; -- The turncock hastens to F. P. 6 feet, And quick unlocks the fountains of the street; While rumbling engines, with increasing roar, Thunder along to luckless Number Four, Where Mr. Dough makes bread for folks to eat. And now through blazing frames, and fiery beams, The Globe, the Sun, the Phoenix, and what not, With gushing pipes throw up abundant streams, On burning bricks, and twists, on rolls -- too hot -- And scorching loaves, -- as if there were no shorter And cheaper way of making toast-and-water! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SONNET WRITTEN BY A NYMPH IN HER OWN BLOOD by CLAUDIO ACHILLINI IN APRIL by MARGARET LEE ASHLEY SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 29. CHRIST AND ENGLAND by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: SORCERY by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE EASTER DECORATIONS by ADA CAMBRIDGE ON ONE, WHO SAID, HE DRANK TO CLEAR HIS EYES by CHARLES COTTON UPON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCESSE ELIZABETH by RICHARD CRASHAW |