Classic Poem

They burn on the window-pane
When the day is soft and late,
But you think they are out in the cold
Between the bush and the gate.

Clean through the blaze you look
At the dear, black, naked trees:
No beautiful bough is burned
By hungerless fires like these,

But no heart is ever warmed,
And no spirit weds desire,
And no house is ever home
That wants for the fairy fire.