Not without fire can any workman mould The iron to his preconceived design, Nor can the artist without fire refine And purify from all its dross the gold; Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine I hope to rise again with the divine, Whom death augments, and time cannot make old. O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns Within me still to renovate my days, Though I am almost numbered with the dead! If by its nature unto heaven returns This element, me, kindled in its blaze, Will it bear upward when my life is fled. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POLITICAL GREATNESS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE PASSERS BY by AL-RADI BILLAH A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 13 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 20 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING by ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA |