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