Heart And Hearth

We sat and watched the hearth-fire blaze, My friend and I together; The crickets sang of harvest-days, The wood of summer weather. It told of shade, of storm and sun, Its native oakland story; To him it only spake of one Who turned all gloom to glory. The cricket carolled still of noon, Bright with the sun’s caresses To him it called a form like June, Aflush with golden tresses. Within the flame a spirit seemed To soar and sway and falter, While in his heart a presence beamed More steadfast on its altar. The embers, in their ashen bed, Looked out with transient flashes; He only saw sweet eyes that shed Their rays through twilight lashes. O’er stubbled fields the autumn wailed, In low and mournful closes; He only heard a song that sailed Over charmed realms of roses. His eyes, once lit with battle-ire, Aflame with warrior science, Forgot their fierce, controlling fire, Their flashes of defiance; But with dreamy love-light blest, More luminous grew and tender, As if the image in his breast Had lit them with its splendor. The voice that once his ardor proved, Along the roaring column, Now to mysterious measures moved Subdued, serenely solemn. He named her, —and the soft words came In musical completeness, As if the breathing of that name Had touched his lips with sweetness.