Bassett House

Nothing moves In this stillness. The stars are masked. Driving here we found We were happy. Now flames reach The top log. Smoke rises Through the flue. All the tools we need Are by the hearth: A straw broom To brush the embers back, Blackened tongs; Enough tinder In the scuttle to rekindle, If the fire burns too low And four hewn logs Stacked in a bin To feed the flames that See our evening through.