Through which her face gleam’d like a misty moon:
The boiling broth, with energy extreme,
Within the pot to bubble up did seem.
The dancing fire flicker’d up and down,
Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale,
And by its crimson light was plainly shown
The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail.
Upon the table stood a jug of ale,
Some plates and knives and forks were near the same;
A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail.