THE LAST CAMP-FIRE

Scar not earth’s breast that I may have Somewhere above her heart a grave; Mine was a life whose swift desire Bent ever less to dust than fire; Then through the swift, white path of flame Send back my soul to whence it came: From some great peak storm-challenging, My death-fire to the heavens fling; The rocks my altar, and above The still eyes of the stars I love; No hymn, save as the midnight wind Comes whispering to seek his kind. Heap high the logs of spruce and pine, Balsam for spices and for wine; Brown cones, and knots a golden blur Of hoarded pitch more sweet than myrrh; Cedar to stream across the dark Its scented embers spark on spark; Long shaggy boughs of juniper, And silvery, odorous sheafs of fir; Spice wood to die in incense smoke Against the stubborn roots of oak— Red to the last for hate or love, As that red, stubborn heart above. Watch till the last pale ember dies, Till wan and low the dead pyre lies; Then let the thin, white ashes blow To all earth’s winds, a finer snow; There is no wind of hers but I Have loved it as it whistled by; No leaf whose life I would not share, No weed that is not someway fair: Hedge not my dust in one close urn, It is to these I would return— The wild, free winds, the things that know No master’s rule, no ordered row. To be, if nature will, at length Part of some great tree’s noble strength; Growth of the grass; to live anew In many a wild flower’s richer hue; Find immortality indeed In ripened heart of fruit and seed. Time grants not any man redress Of his broad law, forgetfulness:— I parley not with shaft and stone, Content that in the perfume blown From next year’s hillsides something sweet, And mine, shall make earth more complete.