The wheezy call of muffins in the morn,
The milkman tottering from his rusty shed,
The help’s shrill clarion, or the fish-man’s horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lofty bed.
For them no more the blazing fire grate burns,
Or busy housewife fries her savory soles,
Though children run to clasp their sires’ red urns,
And roll them in a family game of bowls.
Perhaps in this deserted spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with terrestrial fire,