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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


The Kettle


Theres many a house of grandeur,
  With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
  And does not prove a home.
I do not ask for splendor
  To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask--a kitchen
  Where the kettles always hot.

If things are not all ship-shape,
  I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
  Does not my nerves upset.
But one thing is essential,
  Or seems so to my thought,
And thats a tidy kitchen
  Where the kettles always hot.

In my Aunt Hatties household,
  Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
  Youll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen--
  The very homiest spot--
The kettles always singing,
  The waters always hot.

And if you have a headache,
  Whateer the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
  To get your cup of tea.
I dont know how she does it--
  Some magic she has caught--
For the kitchens cool in summer,
  Yet the kettles always hot.

Oh, theres naught else so dreary
  In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
  That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
  In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
  And the water would be hot.



Ella Wheeler Wilcox


Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
  1. The Birth of the Opal
  2. The Awakening (I love the tropics, where sun and rain)
  3. The Chain
  4. At Forty-Eight
  5. Intermediary


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