Firelight

Silent, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloom The boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room, Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin, They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in, That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew, And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through. They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed, Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said. And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep, They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep, To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the sea Where some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me.