The Fire

The old men of the world have made a fire To warm their trembling hands. They poke the young men in. The young men burn like withes. If one run a little way, The old men are wrath. They catch him and bind him and throw him again to the flames. Green withes burn slow... And the smoke of the young men's torment Rises round and sheer as the trunk of a pillared oak, And the darkness thereof spreads over the sky.... Green withes burn slow... And the old men of the world sit round the fire And rub their hands.... But the smoke of the young men's torment Ascends up for ever and ever.