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

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

To Poe.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

April Fool.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

The Rubaiyat Of A Kentuckian.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

When The Lid Was On.

Edwin C. Ranck, 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.

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

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

"Is It Hot Enough Fer You?"

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew,
And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,
If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew,
Who greets you with the chestnut phrase--
                "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"


II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top--
The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop--
I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too,
If it wasn't for the cuss who says--
                "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"


III.

The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten brass--
The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass--
The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew--
I...

George W. Doneghy

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

In Deeper Vein.

The Incubus.


The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard,
    As I wandered through the woodland near the stream,
With slow and heavy tread
    Through a city of the dead,
When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.

My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuck
    Is started by the clamor of the chase,
And I halted all atremble
    In the vain hope to dissemble,
Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.

'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December,
    The frozen winds were bitter in their cry
And I muttered half aloud
    To that white and silent crowd:
"'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."

And then as if in answer to my whisper,
    Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell:
"No longer live say I,
    'Tis be...

Edwin C. Ranck

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