I.
The flesh-devouring bird of time
sails overhead; of his dark flight
the streamers of immortal rhyme
illume the Scandinavian Night:
all joys on which our lives are flown
in those great wings of darkness flare—
the blue flame that my lover’s hair
trawls like the moonrise on the Rhône:
the red flame that the circling wine
swivels around these sombre walls
when friendship is the most divine
and far too soon the morning falls—
are fuel that his flight consumes
to burnish those unageing plumes.
II.
Upon the red crag of my heart
his gorgeous pinions came to rest
where year by year with curious art
he piles the faggots of his nest,
old forest antlers lichen-hoary
and driftwood fished from lunar seas
that once had blossomed with the lory
and trumpeted the golden bees:
and steeper yet he stacks the pyre
to tempt the forked, cremating fire
to strike, to kindle, and consume:
till answering beacons shall attest
that fire is in the Raven’s nest
and resurrection in the tomb.
III.
His home of firewood from the skies
reclaims the fire, a bride to house:
dumb claws of thunderstricken boughs,
that clenched in imprecation rise
their scent and colour to implore
as first from out the sun it came—
and all that Burning can restore
of sweated resins, leafing flame,
of whistling tongues and scented air,
to bud with singing hearts, to bear
one crop of nightingales and fruits,
and foliate in plumes and wings
until the verdure flies and sings
and birds are flowering from the roots.