A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“. . . my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” —Psalms 45:1

Gaslight

The frigid rain glints fire about
the ice-drawn, lamplit night.
My skin is pricked with haily heat,
and warms my soul from skin to bone.

The slickened streets leave trails behind
the hansoms as they pass;
and men and ladies finely clad
glance fearful out at windswept trees.

Above the clouds, I’m sure a moon
the gloom doth try to strike,
but only flickering gaslamp flames
can whiten darkened streets.

So clear’s the air above the street:
no fog impedes the gaslight-glare.
Like silver sleet, the skydrops fall
and blend to gold in trembling pools.

Oh, how the flame makes bright the night!
Oh, how the rain from ill makes right!

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