Best Famous Goaded Poems

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Written by Charlotte Bronte | Mementos ARRANGING long-locked drawers and shelves Of cabinets, shut up for years, What a strange task we've set ourselves ! How still the lonely room appears ! How strange this mass of ancient treasures, Mementos of past pains and pleasures; These volumes, clasped with costly stone, With print all faded, gilding gone; These fans of leaves, from Indian trees­ These crimson shells, from Indian seas­ These tiny portraits, set in rings­ Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things; Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith, And worn till the receiver's death, Now stored with cameos, china, shells, In this old closet's dusty cells. I scarcely think, for ten long years, A hand has touched these relics old; And, coating each, slow-formed, appears, The growth of green and antique mould. All in this house is mossing over; All is unused, and dim, and damp; Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover­ Bereft for years of fire and lamp. The sun, sometimes in summer, enters The casements, with reviving ray; But the long rains of many winters Moulder the very walls away. And outside all is ivy, clinging To chimney, lattice, gable grey; Scarcely one little red rose springing Through the green moss can force its way. Unscared, the daw, and starling nestle, Where the tall turret rises high, And winds alone come near to rustle The thick leaves where their cradles lie. I sometimes think, when late at even I climb the stair reluctantly, Some shape that should be well in heaven, Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me. I fear to see the very faces, Familiar thirty years ago, Even in the old accustomed places Which look so cold and gloomy now. I've come, to close the window, hither, At twilight, when the sun was down, And Fear, my very soul would wither, Lest something should be dimly shown. Too much the buried form resembling, Of her who once was mistress here; Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling, Might take her aspect, once so dear. Hers was this chamber; in her time It seemed to me a pleasant room, For then no cloud of grief or crime Had cursed it with a settled gloom; I had not seen death's image laid In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed. Before she married, she was blest­ Blest in her youth, blest in her worth; Her mind was calm, its sunny rest Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth. And when attired in rich array, Light, lustrous hair about her brow, She yonder sat­a kind of day Lit up­what seems so gloomy now. These grim oak walls, even then were grim; That old carved chair, was then antique; But what around looked dusk and dim Served as a foil to her fresh cheek; Her neck, and arms, of hue so fair, Eyes of unclouded, smiling, light; Her soft, and curled, and floating hair, Gems and attire, as rainbow bright. Reclined in yonder deep recess, Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie Watching the sun; she seemed to bless With happy glance the glorious sky. She loved such scenes, and as she gazed, Her face evinced her spirit's mood; Beauty or grandeur ever raised In her, a deep-felt gratitude. But of all lovely things, she loved A cloudless moon, on summer night; Full oft have I impatience proved To see how long, her still delight Would find a theme in reverie. Out on the lawn, or where the trees Let in the lustre fitfully, As their boughs parted momently, To the soft, languid, summer breeze. Alas ! that she should e'er have flung Those pure, though lonely joys away­ Deceived by false and guileful tongue, She gave her hand, then suffered wrong; Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young, And died of grief by slow decay. Open that casket­look how bright Those jewels flash upon the sight; The brilliants have not lost a ray Of lustre, since her wedding day. But see­upon that pearly chain­ How dim lies time's discolouring stain ! I've seen that by her daughter worn: For, e'er she died, a child was born; A child that ne'er its mother knew, That lone, and almost friendless grew; For, ever, when its step drew nigh, Averted was the father's eye; And then, a life impure and wild Made him a stranger to his child; Absorbed in vice, he little cared On what she did, or how she fared. The love withheld, she never sought, She grew uncherished­learnt untaught; To her the inward life of thought Full soon was open laid. I know not if her friendlessness Did sometimes on her spirit press, But plaint she never made. The book-shelves were her darling treasure, She rarely seemed the time to measure While she could read alone. And she too loved the twilight wood, And often, in her mother's mood, Away to yonder hill would hie, Like her, to watch the setting sun, Or see the stars born, one by one, Out of the darkening sky. Nor would she leave that hill till night Trembled from pole to pole with light; Even then, upon her homeward way, Long­long her wandering steps delayed To quit the sombre forest shade, Through which her eerie pathway lay. You ask if she had beauty's grace ? I know not­but a nobler face My eyes have seldom seen; A keen and fine intelligence, And, better still, the truest sense Were in her speaking mien. But bloom or lustre was there none, Only at moments, fitful shone An ardour in her eye, That kindled on her cheek a flush, Warm as a red sky's passing blush And quick with energy. Her speech, too, was not common speech, No wish to shine, or aim to teach, Was in her words displayed: She still began with quiet sense, But oft the force of eloquence Came to her lips in aid; Language and voice unconscious changed, And thoughts, in other words arranged, Her fervid soul transfused Into the hearts of those who heard, And transient strength and ardour stirred, In minds to strength unused. Yet in gay crowd or festal glare, Grave and retiring was her air; 'Twas seldom, save with me alone, That fire of feeling freely shone; She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze, Nor even exaggerated praise, Nor even notice, if too keen The curious gazer searched her mien. Nature's own green expanse revealed The world, the pleasures, she could prize; On free hill-side, in sunny field, In quiet spots by woods concealed, Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys, Yet Nature's feelings deeply lay In that endowed and youthful frame; Shrined in her heart and hid from day, They burned unseen with silent flame; In youth's first search for mental light, She lived but to reflect and learn, But soon her mind's maturer might For stronger task did pant and yearn; And stronger task did fate assign, Task that a giant's strength might strain; To suffer long and ne'er repine, Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain. Pale with the secret war of feeling, Sustained with courage, mute, yet high; The wounds at which she bled, revealing Only by altered cheek and eye; She bore in silence­but when passion Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam, The storm at last brought desolation, And drove her exiled from her home. And silent still, she straight assembled The wrecks of strength her soul retained; For though the wasted body trembled, The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained. She crossed the sea­now lone she wanders By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow; Fain would I know if distance renders Relief or comfort to her woe. Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever, These eyes shall read in hers again, That light of love which faded never, Though dimmed so long with secret pain. She will return, but cold and altered, Like all whose hopes too soon depart; Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered, The bitter blasts that blight the heart. No more shall I behold her lying Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me; No more that spirit, worn with sighing, Will know the rest of infancy. If still the paths of lore she follow, 'Twill be with tired and goaded will; She'll only toil, the aching hollow, The joyless blank of life to fill. And oh ! full oft, quite spent and weary, Her hand will pause, her head decline; That labour seems so hard and dreary, On which no ray of hope may shine. Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair Then comes the day that knows no morrow, And death succeeds to long despair. So speaks experience, sage and hoary; I see it plainly, know it well, Like one who, having read a story, Each incident therein can tell. Touch not that ring, 'twas his, the sire Of that forsaken child; And nought his relics can inspire Save memories, sin-defiled. I, who sat by his wife's death-bed, I, who his daughter loved, Could almost curse the guilty dead, For woes, the guiltless proved. And heaven did curse­they found him laid, When crime for wrath was rife, Cold­with the suicidal blade Clutched in his desperate gripe. 'Twas near that long deserted hut, Which in the wood decays, Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root, And lopped his desperate days. You know the spot, where three black trees, Lift up their branches fell, And moaning, ceaseless as the seas, Still seem, in every passing breeze, The deed of blood to tell. They named him mad, and laid his bones Where holier ashes lie; Yet doubt not that his spirit groans, In hell's eternity. But, lo ! night, closing o'er the earth, Infects our thoughts with gloom; Come, let us strive to rally mirth, Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth In some more cheerful room.

Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Ichabod! So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore! Revile him not—the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall! Oh! dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land, once proud of him, Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, nought Save power remains— A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!

Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Ode to Despair TERRIFIC FIEND! thou Monster fell, Condemn'd in haunts profane to dwell, Why quit thy solitary Home, O'er wide Creation's paths to roam? Pale Tyrant of the timid Heart, Whose visionary spells can bind The strongest passions of the mind, Freezing Life's current with thy baneful Art. Nature recoils when thou art near, For round thy form all plagues are seen; Thine is the frantic tone, the sullen mien, The glance of petrifying fear, The haggard Brow, the low'ring Eye, The hollow Cheek, the smother'd Sigh, When thy usurping fangs assail, The sacred Bonds of Friendship fail. Meek-bosom'd Pity sues in vain; Imperious Sorrow spurns relief, Feeds on the luxury of Grief, Drinks the hot Tear, and hugs the galling Chain. AH! plunge no more thy ruthless dart, In the dark centre of the guilty Heart; The POW'R SUPREME, with pitying eye, Looks on the erring Child of Misery; MERCY arrests the wing of Time; To expiate the wretch's crime; Insulted HEAV'N consign'd thy brand To the first Murd'rer's crimson hand. Swift o'er the earth the Monster flew, And round th' ensanguin'd Poisons threw, By CONSCIENCE goaded­driven by FEAR, Till the meek Cherub HOPE subdued his fell career. Thy Reign is past, when erst the brave Imbib'd contagion o'er the midnight lamp, Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons damp Hung round the confines of a Living Grave; * Where no glimm'ring ray illum'd The flinty walls, where pond'rous chains Bound the wan Victim to the humid earth, Where VALOUR, GENIUS, TASTE, and WORTH, In pestilential caves entomb'd, Sought thy cold arms, and smiling mock'd their pains. THERE,­each procrastinated hour The woe-worn suff'rer gasping lay, While by his side in proud array Stalk'd the HUGE FIEND, DESPOTIC POW'R. There REASON clos'd her radiant eye, And fainting HOPE retir'd to die, Truth shrunk appall'd, In spells of icy Apathy enthrall'd; Till FREEDOM spurn'd the ignominious chain, And roused from Superstition's night, Exulting Nature claim'd her right, And call'd dire Vengeance from her dark domain. Now take thy solitary flight Amid the turbid gales of night, Where Spectres starting from the tomb, Glide along th' impervious gloom; Or, stretch'd upon the sea-beat shore, Let the wild winds, as they roar, Rock Thee on thy Bed of Stone; Or, in gelid caverns pent, Listen to the sullen moan Of subterranean winds;­or glut thy sight Where stupendous mountains rent Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy height. At Thy approach the rifted Pine Shall o'er the shatter'd Rock incline, Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds drest, Frowns on the tawny EAGLE's nest; THERE enjoy the 'witching hour, And freeze in Frenzy's dire conceit, Or seek the Screech-owl's lone retreat, On the bleak rampart of some nodding Tow'r. In some forest long and drear, Tempt the fierce BANDITTI's rage, War with famish'd Tygers wage, And mock the taunts of Fear. When across the yawning deep, The Demons of the Tempest sweep, Or deaf'ning Thunders bursting cast Their red bolts on the shivering mast, While fix'd below the sea-boy stands, As threat'ning Death his soul dismays, He lifts his supplicating hands, And shrieks, and groans, and weeps, and prays, Till lost amid the floating fire The agonizing crew expire; THEN let thy transports rend the air, For mad'ning Anguish feeds DESPAIR. When o'er the couch of pale Disease The MOTHER bends, with tearful eye, And trembles, lest her quiv'ring sigh, Should wake the darling of her breast, Now, by the taper's feeble rays, She steals a last, fond, eager gaze. Ah, hapless Parent! gaze no more, Thy CHERUB soars among the Blest, Life's crimson Fount begins to freeze, His transitory scene is o'er. She starts­she raves­her burning brain, Consumes, unconscious of its fires, Dead to the Heart's convulsive Pain, Bewilder'd Memory retires. See! See! she grasps her flowing hair, From her fix'd eye the big drops roll, Her proud Affliction mocks controul, And riots in DESPAIR, Such are thy haunts, malignant Pow'r, There all thy murd'rous Poisons pour; But come not near my calm retreat, Where Peace and holy FRIENDSHIP meet; Where SCIENCE sheds a gentle ray, And guiltless Mirth beguiles the day, Where Bliss congenial to the MUSE Shall round my Heart her sweets diffuse, Where, from each restless Passion free, I give my noiseless hours, BLESS'D POETRY, TO THEE.

Written by Charles Baudelaire | Contemplation THOU, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, The eve is thine which even now drops down, To carry peace or care to human will, And in a misty veil enfolds the town. While the vile mortals of the multitude, By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood-- Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years, In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; And from the water, smiling through her tears, Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.

Written by Ellis Parker Butler | Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; III: On Laziness And Its Resultant Ills There was a man in New York City (His name was George Adolphus Knight) So soft of heart he wept with pity To see our language and its plight. He mourned to see it sorely goaded With silent letters left and right; These from his own name he unloaded And wrote it Georg Adolfus Nit. Six other men in that same city Who longed to see a Spelling Heaven Formed of themselves a strong committee And asked Georg Nit to make it seven. He joined the other six with pleasure, Proud such important men to know, Agreeing that their first great measure Should be to shorten the word though. But G. Adolfus Nit was lazy; He dilly-dallied every day; His life was dreamy, slow and hazy, And indolent in every way. On Monday morn at nine precisely The six reformers (Nit not there) Prepared to simplify though nicely, And each was eager for his share. Smith bit the h off short and ate it; Griggs from the thoug chewed off the g; Brown snapped off u to masticate it, And tho alone was left for three. Delancy’s teeth broke o off quickly; From th Billings took his t, And then the h, albeit prickly, Was shortly swallowed by McGee. This done, the six lay back in plenty, Well fed, they picked their teeth and smiled, And lazy Nit, about 10:20, Strolled in, as careless as a child. “Well, boys,” he said, “where’s the collation? I’m hungry, let us eat some though.” “All gone!” they said, and then Starvation, (Who is not lazy) laid Nit low. Nit trembled, gasped, and, as the phrase is, Cashed in his checks, gave up his breath, And turned his toes up to the daisies— His laziness had caused his death! Warning Spelling reformers should make haste. If each reformer wants a taste.

Written by Amy Lowell | New York at Night A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie And snort, outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud. I hear the sigh The goaded city gives, not day Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay. Below, straight streets, monotonous, From north and south, from east and west, Stretch glittering; and luminous Above, one tower tops the rest And holds aloft man's constant quest: Time! Joyless emblem of the greed Of millions, robber of the best Which earth can give, the vulgar creed Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed. O Night! Whose soothing presence brings The quiet shining of the stars. O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings So intimately close that scars Are hid from our own eyes. Beggars By day, our wealth is having night To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright. Where art thou hiding, where thy peace? This is the hour, but thou art not. Will waking tumult never cease? Hast thou thy votary forgot? Nature forsakes this man-begot And festering wilderness, and now The long still hours are here, no jot Of dear communing do I know; Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

Written by Claude McKay | The White City I will not toy with it nor bend an inch. Deep in the secret chambers of my heart I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch I bear it nobly as I live my part. My being would be a skeleton, a shell, If this dark Passion that fills my every mood, And makes my heaven in the white world's hell, Did not forever feed me vital blood. I see the mighty city through a mist-- The strident trains that speed the goaded mass, The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed, The fortressed port through which the great ships pass, The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate, Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.

Written by Robert William Service | Grey Gull 'Twas on an iron, icy day I saw a pirate gull down-plane, And hover in a wistful way Nigh where my chickens picked their grain. An outcast gull, so grey and old, Withered of leg I watched it hop, By hunger goaded and by cold, To where each fowl full-filled its crop. They hospitably welcomed it, And at the food rack gave it place; It ate and ate, it preened a bit, By way way of gratitude and grace. It parleyed with my barnyard cock, Then resolutely winged away; But I am fey in feather talk, And this is what I heard it say: "I know that you and all your tribe Are shielded warm and fenced from fear; With food and comfort you would bribe My weary wings to linger here. An outlaw scarred and leather-lean, I battle with the winds of woe: You think me scaly and unclean... And yet my soul you do not know, "I storm the golden gates of day, I wing the silver lanes of night; I plumb the deep for finny prey, On wave I sleep in tempest height. Conceived was I by sea and sky, Their elements are fused in me; Of brigand birds that float and fly I am the freest of the free. "From peak to plain, from palm to pine I coast creation at my will; The chartless solitudes are mine, And no one seeks to do me ill. Until some cauldron of the sea Shall gulp for me and I shall cease... Oh I have lived enormously And I shall have prodigious peace." With yellow bill and beady eye This spoke, I think, that old grey gull; And as I watched it Southward fly Life seemed to be a-sudden dull. For I have often held this thought - If I could change this mouldy me, By heaven! I would choose the lot, Of all the gypsy birds, to be A gull that spans the spacious sea.

Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | The Garden by the Bridge The Desert sands are heated, parched and dreary, The tigers rend alive their quivering prey In the near Jungle; here the kites rise, weary, Too gorged with living food to fly away. All night the hungry jackals howl together Over the carrion in the river bed, Or seize some small soft thing of fur or feather Whose dying shrieks on the night air are shed. I hear from yonder Temple in the distance Whose roof with obscene carven Gods is piled, Reiterated with a sad insistence Sobs of, perhaps, some immolated child. Strange rites here, where the archway's shade is deeper, Are consummated in the river bed; Parias steal the rotten railway sleeper To burn the bodies of their cholera dead. But yet, their lust, their hunger, cannot shame them Goaded by fierce desire, that flays and stings; Poor beasts, and poorer men. Nay, who shall blame them? Blame the Inherent Cruelty of Things. The world is horrible and I am lonely, Let me rest here where yellow roses bloom And find forgetfulness, remembering only Your face beside me in the scented gloom. Nay, do not shrink! I am not here for passion, I crave no love, only a little rest, Although I would my face lay, lover's fashion, Against the tender coolness of your breast. I am so weary of the Curse of Living The endless, aimless torture, tumult, fears. Surely, if life were any God's free giving, He, seeing His gift, long since went blind with tears. Seeing us; our fruitless strife, our futile praying, Our luckless Present and our bloodstained Past. Poor players, who make a trick or two in playing, But know that death must win the game at last. As round the Fowler, red with feathered slaughter, The little joyous lark, unconscious, sings,— As the pink Lotus floats on azure water, Innocent of the mud from whence it springs. You walk through life, unheeding all the sorrow, The fear and pain set close around your way, Meeting with hopeful eyes each gay to-morrow, Living with joy each hour of glad to-day. I love to have you thus (nay, dear, lie quiet, How should these reverent fingers wrong your hair?) So calmly careless of the rush and riot That rages round is seething everywhere. You do not understand. You think your beauty Does but inflame my senses to desire, Till all you hold as loyalty and duty, Is shrunk and shrivelled in the ardent fire. You wrong me, wearied out with thought and grieving As though the whole world's sorrow eat my heart, I come to gaze upon your face believing Its beauty is as ointment to the smart. Lie still and let me in my desolation Caress the soft loose hair a moment's span. Since Loveliness is Life's one Consolation, And love the only Lethe left to man. Ah, give me here beneath the trees in flower, Beside the river where the fireflies pass, One little dusky, all consoling hour Lost in the shadow of the long grown grass Give me, oh you whose arms are soft and slender, Whose eyes are nothing but one long caress, Against your heart, so innocent and tender, A little Love and some Forgetfulness.

Written by Amy Lowell | The Bombardment Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the `etagere'. Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the `etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing, with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it --" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom! It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom! A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so ***** happened, the room shook." Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. Boom! Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night. Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. Boom! The bohemian glass on the `etagere' is no longer there. Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles along the floors. The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams. The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom!