 | Poems |  |
MY FIRE.
Here all day long, in storm or sun,
My bright companion flickers still;
Its purr and crackle never done,
Its warmth unvexed by change or chill:
Gay comrade of my solitude,
That can not weary or intrude.
My bright companion flickers still;
Its purr and crackle never done,
Its warmth unvexed by change or chill:
Gay comrade of my solitude,
That can not weary or intrude.
Sometimes it flashes red and high,
To meet and scoff the hissing snow;
Sometimes, with gentler ministry,
Its saffron flames burn soft and low;
Or quivering tongues of sapphire light
Leap upward in their fierce delight.
To meet and scoff the hissing snow;
Sometimes, with gentler ministry,
Its saffron flames burn soft and low;
Or quivering tongues of sapphire light
Leap upward in their fierce delight.
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Like prisoned spirits of the air
Set free by magic sign and spell,
Their tints the artist's fond despair,
Such hues as speech is vain to tell,
The sparkling, wavering, wayward fires
Adorn my summer's funeral pyres.
Set free by magic sign and spell,
Their tints the artist's fond despair,
Such hues as speech is vain to tell,
The sparkling, wavering, wayward fires
Adorn my summer's funeral pyres.
For here are boughs from many a tree
That underneath the brightening sun
Put forth their lovely mystery
Of leaf and flower e'er spring was done,
And when the autumn winds blew rude,
The grass with gold and crimson strewed.
That underneath the brightening sun
Put forth their lovely mystery
Of leaf and flower e'er spring was done,
And when the autumn winds blew rude,
The grass with gold and crimson strewed.
And here the maple's shapely head,
The beeches' bole of velvet gray,
The fragrant birch whose branches spread
With airy dance and graceful sway,
The walnut, odorous, straight, and tall,
In ashes expiate their fall.
The beeches' bole of velvet gray,
The fragrant birch whose branches spread
With airy dance and graceful sway,
The walnut, odorous, straight, and tall,
In ashes expiate their fall.
No more for them the zephyrs sing
In wistful music all night long;
No more their restless crests shall swing
Before the storm's triumphant song;
No verdant plume or crown of gold
Those prostrate trunks shall e'er uphold.
In wistful music all night long;
No more their restless crests shall swing
Before the storm's triumphant song;
No verdant plume or crown of gold
Those prostrate trunks shall e'er uphold.
With ruthless hand the ringing steel
Fell fast on every sturdy side;
The wild birds saw them swerve and reel,
And screamed the death-cry of their pride.
Shall ever might of man restore
Their stately strength to hill or shore?
Fell fast on every sturdy side;
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And screamed the death-cry of their pride.
Shall ever might of man restore
Their stately strength to hill or shore?
Fallen are the mighty from their ranks;
The squirrel's home, the oriole's nest,
Low on the forest's mossy banks,
Shorn of their kingly splendors, rest.
For this, long years of sun and rain,
Of growth and glory—all in vain.
The squirrel's home, the oriole's nest,
Low on the forest's mossy banks,
Shorn of their kingly splendors, rest.
For this, long years of sun and rain,
Of growth and glory—all in vain.
Yet could they feel the pang of fate,
To them these chill and moaning airs,
Might whisper: “Whether soon or late,
Nature some death for all prepares.
The use of beauty and its glow,
Few but her favorite children know.
To them these chill and moaning airs,
Might whisper: “Whether soon or late,
Nature some death for all prepares.
The use of beauty and its glow,
Few but her favorite children know.
“To wave beneath the starry sky,
To rest the earth with shade and dew,
Then, when the glare of noon goes by,
To live again in service true,
A shivering mortal's life to cheer—
What more could Nature give ye here?”
To rest the earth with shade and dew,
Then, when the glare of noon goes by,
To live again in service true,
A shivering mortal's life to cheer—
What more could Nature give ye here?”
And I beside this friendly blaze
Look back to mourn my fallen trees,
Yet praise them in these wintry days
More than when bloom delights the bees—
My consolation and my cheer
Through the long dead-watch of the year.
Look back to mourn my fallen trees,
Yet praise them in these wintry days
More than when bloom delights the bees—
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Through the long dead-watch of the year.
Could I such peace and comfort be,
So genial and so bright a friend—
Such innocent hilarity
Be mine to life's remotest end—
Ah me! how little should I care
To turn to ashes and to air!
So genial and so bright a friend—
Such innocent hilarity
Be mine to life's remotest end—
Ah me! how little should I care
To turn to ashes and to air!
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