And you, my brothers, in the dim-lit mine, Or in the town, or on the tumbling sea, Who carry in your ears the hungry whine Of wolves which hunt the woods of Poverty: What profit you, if under that same sign As they who grind you down you too advance? If on the tide of chance You (swept away) Do even as they? For close about us whir the angel wings, And near beside us sound the throbbing strings Of Paradise. The song of Brotherhood With flowers springs, and sings through all the air To that high place where Jacob’s ladder stood Tethered to chanting stars. We only dare Ignore God’s message, we alone of all His children scorn Love’s joyous festival, Spending our days for that which profits not, Setting our heart on things. When sense is edged and blood of Youth is hot, And when stiff age like ice about us clings, We spend our days for things which profit not, We set our heart on things. TRIOLET Flesh triumphs awhile, And after, the spirit. By force and by guile Flesh triumphs awhile, Then finds but a pile Of grave-earth to inherit Flesh triumphs awhile And after, the spirit. FIRE (REVISED VERSION[1]) I Gold-crowned with flames Behind its bars The coal: And over the chimney In a black hole Spark-children playing Their mazy games And mimic-mighty wars: Apple-logs green Crossed cunningly: Smoke-veils between Drifting and lifting.... O fire, my glee, Poor man’s friend, Food, company, Warmth and wine in one: May I never need Shillings to spend On apple-logs And coals to feed Thee, Bright-faced wonder of children and me! [1] First version was published in _Ducks, and other Verses_, 1919. II Warm at thy feet I hear Speech more wise, more dear And clear than sage’s: More sweet than pages Of any poet, Showing never yet Smoke-veils of blue In golden places, Soot too, And faces In fire, and sparkling gay Little-lived glad children of fire at play. III What lore forlorn, What tale of tales, When man’s poor stock Of wisdom fails In Fire’s cave, Is born! Here Jack shall knock, --That hero brave On the giant’s door ... With rumbling snore The monster turns From sleep, And yawns.... But the sheep Of Little Bo-Peep (By magic quick To wolves now turning) Are following Jack. Hark, crackle crack! (Is it fire burning?) They crunch, they lick Up “Fe, Fo, Fum.” Sucking his thumb Little Jack Horner Creeps from the corner Where he had hidden Behind a pie From the giant’s eye.