FIRE

Gold-crowned with flames Behind its bars The coal: And over the chimney In a black hole Spark-children playing Their mazy games And mimic-mighty wars: Apple-logs green Crossed cunningly: Smoke-veils between Drifting and lifting.... O fire, my glee, Poor man’s friend, Food, company, Warmth and wine in one: May I never need Shillings to spend On apple-logs And coals to feed Thee, Bright-faced wonder of children and me!

Warm at thy feet I hear Speech more wise, more dear And clear than sage’s: More sweet than pages Of any poet, Showing never yet Smoke-veils of blue In golden places, Soot too, And faces In fire, and sparkling gay Little-lived glad children of fire at play.

What lore forlorn, What tale of tales, When man’s poor stock Of wisdom fails In Fire’s cave, Is born! Here Jack shall knock, —That hero brave On the giant’s door ... With rumbling snore The monster turns From sleep, And yawns.... But the sheep Of Little Bo-Peep (By magic quick To wolves now turning) Are following Jack. Hark, crackle crack! (Is it fire burning?) They crunch, they lick Up “Fe, Fo, Fum.” Sucking his thumb Little Jack Horner Creeps from the corner Where he had hidden Behind a pie From the giant’s eye. Now doors as bidden Do open fly, And in they throng— The prisoners all With a merry song. Here’s Old King Cole To lead the ball! How merrily His fiddlers three Strike up the air That pleases his soul— A mighty sound As of wind in chimneys When trees are bare.... Round and round In smoke-wreaths whirl Prince, Shepherd-girl, King, goose-girl, queen, All who have been For joy of children, And company, Since tales began: All that a man Can believe and be Never again; Save when in fire (Apple-logs green Crossed cunningly) He sees it plain, As I have seen, This thronged night-fire: Such light that shines Through Poetry and Small tumbling strain Of song, or from a window-pane As daylight fails, As evening pales In a sweet land Shadowed with pines, Peopled with children-haunted pines Murmuring fairy-tales.