Classic Poem

Brushwood and broom I bring to feed my fire,
Brief-flaming bracken, brittle-flaring ling,
Quick-crackling gorse and cones that smouldering sing
With sappy hiss as blue flames jet and spire.

Beechmast and leaves through long years bedded deep,
Pine-needles stacked about rock-rooted firs
In woodland hollows where no echo stirs—
I bring to feed the fire that shall not sleep.

Fiercely it leaps exultant in the night
In fresh-fed fury roaring to the stars,
While gaunt black shadows move among the scars
Whose craggy spurs are tipped with golden light.

By night and day the perishing bright flame
Wind-flourished flares and fails, yet never dies,
But lives that I therein may see your eyes—
Those fire-bright eyes my love could never tame

Which from the white heat of the burning core
Look out upon me as I gaze and gaze.
I bring fresh boughs to feed the hungry blaze
That fire may burn your heart for evermore

Wherever in far southern lands you roam,
By what marshlight of wandering passion led:
For tumbled, cold and empty lies my bed,
Deserted, bare and wind-swept is my home.

Without foreboding from the fold I turned
To come to you, but over the heather-thatch
No smoke of welcome curled: I raised the latch;
No fire of welcome on the hearthstone burned.

I called your name: I climbed the ladder-stair
Up to the roof-tree chamber, raftered-low:
The sunset filled it with a golden glow
Of mocking light, but you I found not there.

Long, long I called your name in bield and byre
And fold and shieling, over hill and dale.
Your heart heard not. With hands that never fail
I feed and feed the ever-failing fire.

Wide-eyed, nor ever slumbering night or day,
I watch the flame that feeds upon my life,
That trampling shower or thunder's crashing strife
Shall never quench till all be burned away—

Till, when at last consumed and spent I fall
In cold grey ash of passion's fiery gold,
Wherever you be your heart will shudder cold,
Your feet will turn to answer to my call.