An Olive Fire
An olive fire’s a lovely thing;
Somehow it makes me think of Spring
As in my grate it over—spills
With dancing flames like daffodils.
They flirt and frolic, twist and twine,
The brassy fire—irons wink and shine. . . .
Leap gold, you flamelets! Laugh and sing:
An olive fire’s a lovely thing.
An olive fire’s a household shrine:
A crusty loaf, a jug of wine,
An apple and a chunk of cheese —
Oh I could be content with these.
But if my curse of oil is there,
To fry a fresh—caught fish, I swear
I do not envy any king,
As sitting by my hearth I sing:
An olive fire’s a lovely thing.
When old and worn, of life I tire,
I’ll sit before an olive fire,
And watch the feather ash like snow
As softly as a rose heart glow;
The tawny roots will loose their hoard
Of sunbeams centuries have stored,
And flames like yellow chicken’s cheep,
Till in my heart Peace is so deep:
With hands prayer—clasped I sleep . . . and sleep.
Autres oeuvres par Robert W. Service...
