A hurrying tramp of feet,—
A sickly haze that wraps the town
Like a leaden winding-sheet,—
A smothering smoke is in the air—
A crackling sound—a cry!—
And yonder, up over the furnace pot
That smokes like the smoke of the Cities of Lot,
There's something fierce and hissing and hot
That licks the very sky!
* The Italians have a proverb, "See Naples, and die"