Here, in the sulphurous air,
Is acted a strange fable
Of gruesome witches’ cauldrons and hell-gates;
Plumed geysers shoot according to timetable
And cautious tourists walk
On shuddering ridges hot as boiler-plates.
How calmly their eyes watch
Earth, like a boy, amuse
Itself with noise and making round mud pies.
What if these wonders are the spluttering fuse
Which, with a cosmic shock,
Will split the world, and litter the wide skies?