Though alive with deeper fire,
youth’s inflaming haunts me still;
For the hearth where once it burned now lies
in a half-light faint and still.
Yet if, by chance, a gust should blow by there,
o’er the ashes cold and grey,
the embers all at once are roused.
From underneath the ghost of fires past
there surges ardent flame,
sweet as mayfly cloud does from the earth
when showers deign to fall;
strong as whisky draught,
and whispering as gently as the rain.
Though the embers simply slumber,
though their burning lingers still,
still I yearn that there may surface soon,
from underneath the grey,
that lively heat, that fervent light
that stirs the soul,
that, in the darkness of the night,
flares high and radiant,
and melts the lifeless
Youth, your inflaming