Summer Heat.

Nay, why discuss this summer heat,
Of which vain people tell?
Oh, sinner, rather were it meet
To fix thy thoughts on hell!

The punishment ordained for you
In that infernal spot
Is het by Satan's impish crew
And kept forever hot.

Sumatra might be reckoned nice,
And Tophet passing cool,
And Sodom were a cake of ice
Beside that sulphur pool.

An awful stench and dismal wail
Come from the broiling souls,
Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail
Stirs up the brimstone coals.

Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet
That thou shouldst ponder well,
For what, oh, what, is worldly heat
Unto the heat of hell?

Eugene Field

Eugene Field was an American writer, best known for his children's poetry and humorous essays. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, he was known as the 'Poet of Childhood' due to his well-loved poems for children. After his mother's death in 1856, he was raised by a cousin in Amherst, Massachusetts. Field studied at several universities but never graduated. His most famous poems include 'Wynken, Blynken, and Nod' and 'The Duel.' Field worked as a journalist and editor in various cities, including Chicago, where he spent the last years of his life.

Eugene Field

Poking Fun At Xanthias

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

The Perpetual Wooing.

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

Ailsie, My Bairn

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

Béranger's "My Last Song Perhaps"

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Heat

I.

Now is it as if Spring had never been,
And Winter but a memory and dream,
Here where the Summer stands, her lap of green
Heaped high with bloom and beam,

Among her blackberry-lilies, low that lean
To kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stare
Upon the dragonfly which, slimly-seen,
Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair,
Sparkles above them there.

II.

Knee-deep among the tepid pools the cows
Chew a slow cud or switch a slower tail,
Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs,
Where thin the wood-gnats ail.

From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse;
The sleepy bees make hardly any sound;
The only things the sunrays can arouse,
It seems, are two black beetles rolling 'round
Upon the dusty ground.

Madison Julius Cawein

Heat.

    The fickle sun that had the earth caress'd
        And quickened all her amorous desire,
    And brought fresh roses to adorn her breast,
        Now spurned her in the madness of his ire;
    A haze of heat half hid the mountain's crest;
        The very river seemed of liquid fire;
    The air was flame, the town a stifling pale,
    And all the land was like a Hinnom's Vale.

    I thought of Hagar and what she endured,
        Faint in the desert, driv'n from Sara's sight;
    Of angry Jonah underneath his gourd,
        Grown in a night and withered in a night;
    Of the sun-stricken lad Elisha cured
        For the good, hospitable Shunammite;
    And of the fiery furnace made to glow
    For Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.

    I called t...

W. M. MacKeracher

The Hot Weather Fiend.

Ah, somewhere in another world
    There is a warmer spot,
Where the fire is burning always.
    And always it is hot;
And always fiends are shouting,
    And always flames are blue,
And always Satan's asking:
    "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?"

Edwin C. Ranck

Hell Fire.

One only fire has hell; but yet it shall
Not after one sort there excruciate all:
But look, how each transgressor onward went
Boldly in sin, shall feel more punishment.

Robert Herrick

Hell Fire.

The fire of hell this strange condition hath,
To burn, not shine, as learned Basil saith.

Robert Herrick

Heat.

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
T...

Archibald Lampman