(In Memory of T. F. B.) Across the school-ground it would start To light my eyes, that yellow gleam -- The window of the flaming heart, The chimney of the tossing dream. The scuffed and wooden porch of Heaven, The voice that came like a caress, The warm kind hands that once were given My carelessness. It was a house you would not think Could hold such sacraments in things Or give the wild heart meat and drink Or give the stormy soul high wings Or chime small voices to such mirth Or crown the night with stars and flowers Or make upon this quaking earth Such steady hours. Yet, that in storm it stood secure, And in the cold was warm with love, Shall its similitude endure Past trophies that men weary of, Where two were out of fortune's reach, Building great empires round a name And ushering into casual speech Dim worlds aflame. |