by DONALD C. BABCOCK
THE hearth should rest upon the ground,
The fire upon the clay.
But chimneys reach beyond the bound,
They point another way.
The cellar holds the hearth in place,
But chimneys ruminate on space.
Where man makes war upon the cold
Are clustered little things.
Here copper shines as fair as gold,
And here the kettle sings.
Close to the soil a hearth must lie:
A chimney breaks into the sky.