That cold winter evening <br />The fire would not draw, <br />And the whole family hung <br />Over the dismal grate <br />Where rain-soaked logs <br />Bubbled, hissed and steamed. <br />Then, when the others had gone <br />Up to their chilly beds, <br />And I was ready to go, <br />The wood began to flame <br />In clear rose and violet, <br />Heating the small hearth. <br /> <br />Why should that memory cling <br />Now the children are all grown up, <br />And the house - a different house - <br />Is warm at any season?<br /><br />Kingsley Amis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wasted-31/
