My Drift Wood Fire

Heap high the wood on my rusty grate As I sit enthroned like a potentate In my old arm chair, while the crackling blaze Unbars the gates, to my dazzled gaze, Of a flame bright world that my fancy weaves Though the storm may batter the creaking eaves.

There is Norway pine from the Arctic’s chill From wrecks that splintered off Peaked Hill; There is stout oak fashioned by broad axe blows, And stranger wood that the jungle grows; For such is the tribute I levy, - these Are the far flung gifts of the seven seas.

The surf that claws at the wind swept beach Like skeleton fingers seems to reach For my lonely shelter; but staunch it stands Though its walls resound to the rattling sands In volleys hurled by the howling blasts; - Pile on those staves and that stump of mast!

Up the roaring chimney the black smoke goes But O the glory that ebbs and flows On the heat warped ceiling and buckled floor, In green and purple; with ruddy ore That glints in gold where the salt burns through Mid flames that dance in an elfin blue!

My home may seem but a weathered shack Where the cold creeps in through many a crack; But my fire’s bright magic has changed all these To a castle hall where I take my ease, With the window flaunting in sparkling lines My royal crest that the frost designs.

Yes, I am a king carefree and bold And I laugh at the gale and the winter’s cold. My grate? ’Tis a jewel vault of Ind. That music wild? - It is not the wind But my minstrel’s songs, for my heart’s desire I have found at last in my drift wood fire!