The mantle-shelf, familiar still,
Holds candlesticks and coffee-mill;
The smoothing irons, large and small,
The lard-lamp overtops them all;
And sulphur sticks—they burn you know,
From faintest coal when fire is low.
Oft have I watched at even-tide
Strange ghost-forms through the embers glide;
The glowing coals, white, black and red,
Now livid are, and now seem dead!