HEARTH-GLOW
NOW a man’s true heart is his home, I think,
And the hearth with the crackling pine,
With the leaping flames and the glowing stones,
Is somehow its inmost shrine.
And the hearth with the crackling pine,
With the leaping flames and the glowing stones,
Is somehow its inmost shrine.
And the stones must come from the river’s bed—
Softly colorful must they be,
Like the long-dulled rose and the faded green
Of an old-time tapestry.
Softly colorful must they be,
Like the long-dulled rose and the faded green
Of an old-time tapestry.
And the light must fall with a fitful flare
On the logs in the lichened wall—
(Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill note
Once echoed the bluejay’s call.)
On the logs in the lichened wall—
(Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill note
Once echoed the bluejay’s call.)
And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyes
From the flash of each burning brand,
And the man will know from its quickening touch,
The where of a woman’s hand.
From the flash of each burning brand,
And the man will know from its quickening touch,
The where of a woman’s hand.
And the fears that weighed till he grew afraid
Will be turned into nothingness
Will be turned into nothingness
[61]
