Poems (Procter)/Pictures in the Fire

by Adelaide Anne Procter

PICTURES IN THE FIRE.

AT is it you ask me, darling?
 All my stories, child, you know;
I have no strange dreams to tell you,
 Pictures I have none to show.

Tell you glorious scenes of travel?
 Nay, my child, that cannot be,
I have seen no foreign countries,
 Marvels none on land or sea.

Yet strange sights in truth I witness,
 And I gaze until I tire;
Wondrous pictures, changing ever,
 As I look into the fire.

There, last night, I saw a cavern,
 Black as pitch; within it lay,
Coiled in many folds, a dragon,
 Glaring as if turned at bay.

And a knight in dismal armor
 On a winged eagle came,
To do battle with this dragon;
 And his crest was all of flame.

As I gazed the dragon faded,
 And, instead, sat Pluto crowned
By a lake of burning fire;
 Spirits dark were crouching round.

That was gone, and lo! before me,
 A cathedral vast and grim;
I could almost hear the organ
 Peal along the arches dim.

As I watched the wreathèd pillars,
 Groves of stately palms arose,
And a group of swarthy Indians
 Stealing on some sleeping foes.

Stay: a cataract glancing brightly
 Dashed and sparkled; and beside
Lay a broken marble monster,
 Mouth and eyes were staring wide.

Then I saw a maiden wreathing
 Starry flowers in garlands sweet;
Did she see the fiery serpent
 That was wrapped about her feet?

That fell crashing all and vanished;
 And I saw two armies close,—
I could almost hear the clarions,
 And the shouting of the foes.

They were gone; and lo! bright angels,
 On a barren mountain wild,
Raised appealing arms to Heaven,
 Bearing up a little child.

And I gazed, and gazed, and slowly
 Gathered in my eyes sad tears,
And the fiery pictures bore me
 Back through distant dreams of years.

Once again I tasted sorrow,
 With past joy was once more gay,
Till the shade had gathered round me—
 And the fire had died away.