Beneath the tepid vessel a small flame
Licks, with a taste for arson, at a twig
Adjacent to its own, and spreads its fame
Around the touching wood, and then grows big.
The silent water begins to heat, though slightly;
But warming steadily soon becomes unstill;
And after pregnant minutes begins lightly
To hiss, threatening to bubble and overspill.
Then upward start the bubbles, like fresh champagne’s,
But faster, and more marvelously fun.
And faster still they come. They make long chains,
And gather, rise, and burst, the many as one.
Praised be The Muse! Her glory here behold
Who turns to steam what otherwise would mold!