FACES IN THE FIRE.
The night creeps onward, sad and slow:
In these red embers' dying glow
The forms of Fancy come and go.
An island-farm—broad seas of corn
Stirred by the wandering breath of morn—
The happy spot where I was born.
The picture fadeth in its place:
Amid the glow I seem to trace
The shifting semblance of a face.
'Tis now a little childish form—
Red lips for kisses pouted warm—
And elf-locks tangled in the storm.
