Classic Poem

The timber I have hewn, stacked high,
Would overtop Saint Mary's spire
That soars into the windy sky,
Yet it has only served for fuel
To feed one little cottage-fire—

Has only served to keep aglow
One ingle-nook when winter's storm
Raked heaven and earth with blinding snow—
A forest felled and lifelong labour
To keep a little household warm.

And that small fire that still devours
Fresh timber burns my life away:
The tale of gold and glooming hours
Of tree and man's the selfsame story—
Green flame, red flame, and ashes grey.