Sonnet on a Tea-Kettle

O Kettle!—’tis a piteous thing to see
Thy silver cheeks disfigur’d by the coals,
 While thro' thy lips the murm’ring vapour rolls,
And all sit at their ease, save thou and me:
Yet breathing bland and dulcet melody,
 Thou sittest still—but O!—Alas! the more
 Thy voice is heard, the sooner is thy store
Of water wasted ere we drink our tea.
Sweet singing Kettle! while I gaze on thee,
 I think how, like the liquid element,
 Love, when it boils too fast, is quickly spent,
And ends in smoke and drear vacuity;
Too oft like thee, bright tea-kettle of tin,
All gloss without, all emptiness within!

V.