The kettle sings, the lamp is trimmed,
the road goes dark beyond the gate,
and all the world that is not here
has kindly agreed to wait.
Come in. There is a chair for you.
There is not much, and it is warm.
Whatever business brought you out
can sit outside and hold the storm.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
Curated by First Verse from the public domain
