The Kettle

There’s many a house of grandeur, With turret, tower and dome, That knows not peace or comfort, And does not prove a home. I do not ask for splendour To crown my daily lot, But this I ask – a kitchen Where the kettles always hot. If things are not all ship-shape, I do not fume or fret, A little clean disorder Does not my nerves upset. But one thing is essential, Or seems so in my thought, And that’s a tidy kitchen Where the kettle’s always hot. In my Aunt Hattie’s household, Though skies outside are drear, Though times are dark and troubled, You’ll always find good cheer. And in her quaint old kitchen – The very homiest spot – The kettle’s always singing, The water’s always hot. And if you have a headache, Whate’er the hour may be, There is no tedious waiting To get your cup of tea. I don’t know how she does it – Some magic she has caught – For the kitchen’s cool in summer, Yet the kettle’s always hot. Oh, there’s naught else so dreary In household kingdom found As a cold and sullen kettle That does not make a sound. And I think that love is lacking In the hearts in such a spot, Or the kettle would be singing And the water would be hot.