Hatchet marks in the trunk of a pine. Winter cracking across that lake where the ice fishers gather -- ashes and a burning coal. What fire is this that the ragged men who huddle there now hold their hands out over it like the apostles of old. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHERE MY BOOKS GO by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SPRING, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT, FEBRUARY, 1885 by WALT WHITMAN PRELUDE TO THE NANTAHALAS by BARBARA BOWEN THE THEATRE-CURTAIN by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE EARL OF SOMERSET: SONG (2) by THOMAS CAMPION |