The day was gray—a film of misty rain
Blew on a gentle wind through unroofed home,
Temple and marble bath. The stony lane
That once had been a street and looked toward Rome,
Was ghostly-still and broken and bereft;
The weeds had grown, a lizard crawled in fright
Across a rut by some swift chariot left,
Hastening in panic through that flame-shot night.
The cool rain fell—we spoke of molten rock
Half carelessly—of sudden death and fear,
We who were still so blithe and quick to mock,
Who baked our loaves, thinking to-morrow near;
While down Good Fortune Street, before our eyes,
A green hill hissed white spirals to the skies.