The Fire in the Bush

THE ocean’s trampling rattles the window,
The trade wind buffets the chimney head.
All day I have fought dust
And web and rust,
Tended the hearth beneath the sheltering roof,
Offered the hospitable salt and bread,
With busy visible gestures filling the day, never aloof —
Yet the hearth of my heart was fireless
And still as stone.

Now the night wind bends the pine tree
And rattles the shoreward window.
I, beside it, alone,
Am watching another fire —
Watching the answering flame in the toyon bush,
The unconsuming flame that knows no roof, no hearth,
That burns in the outer dark in the heart of the live green bush
Yet is ever unshaken by storm, undimmed by falling rain,
Its ruddy beauty leaping from the living bush.

How many years inside the sheltering door
Treading back and forth, going, returning,
Tending the tangible fire
Have I watched the outer burning.
To-night by the window I cry
Through the dark — let me once ere I die,
Once out in the wind, out under the sky,
Thrust my hand in that flame though it scar,
Hold my cheek to that flame though it sear!