Poems (Jackson)/Burnt Offering
BURNT OFFERING.
HE fire leaped up, swift, hot, and red; Swift, hot, and red, waiting a prey;The woman came with swift, light tread, And silently knelt down to layArmfuls of leaves upon the fire,As men lay fagots on a pyre.Armfuls of leaves which had been bright Like painter's tints six months before,All faded now, a ghastly sight, Dusty and colorless, she bore,And knelt and piled them on the fire,As men lay fagots on the pyre.
Watching the crackle and the blaze, Idly I smiled and idly said:"Good-by, dead leaves, go dead leaves' ways. Next year there will be more as red."The woman turned, and from the fireLooked up as from a funeral-pyre.
I saw my idle words had been Far crueler than I could know,And made an old wound bleed again. "These are not leaves," she whispered low,"That I am burning in the fire,But days,—it is a funeral-pyre."