By This Last Fire

Heap branches, sun-dried, resinous on the blaze, Spread down your tattered cloak On piled sweet bracken,—We will dream the days’ Far wanderings over while smoke Blows pungent incense, and a dark wind skirrs The starry summits of the firs.

At break of day we cross the last bright hill: The last nomadic mile Behind us, and ahead the chill Grey stones of town! How shall we reconcile Our hearts to peace? What can there be To wake again the melody Of wonder? We have beheld stars Over cities fallen into dream; In lost and silent harbours the phantom spars Of ships forgotten by the seas. The gleam And glint of southward drifting wings Have lured us through the blossomy fires Of hidden valleys to the secret springs Of streams far-flowing. And where blue pine spires Into clouds snow-burdened, we have stood In silver flooding through a frozen wood.—

And now by this last fire we slip the strong Worn sandals of adventure from our feet,— The moon burns high, but I shall lie dark long, Enshrining for the bleak white hours this sweet Deep-breathing night, these bough-swept mountain skies Whose stars glow cool across the eyes!