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175
IX.THE FIRE AT EVENING.
To one who looks but seldom on the stars,Whose lode-star is a certain dear bright eye
Kind fortune sent him; who not frequently
Among the tarns and streams, the hills and scars
Of nature uninformed with life would roam:
To one who loves the haunts of men, there bound
By chance and choice: here pitching still his home
Where Art the most abides; to such a man
The hearth is this world's centre, holy ground
On which the daily sandals are untied:
And in the caverned fire he learns to scan
The day just past new picture-historied.
Aye, ev'n all life restored and striven again,
And a new sun-rise breaks o'er heart and brain!
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