I
Each ash is raised by some dead fire—
A monument
To our lost fevers of desire,
That now lie spent,
In the cold discipline of death,
Cooling their breath.
A monument
To our lost fevers of desire,
That now lie spent,
In the cold discipline of death,
Cooling their breath.
But you, my love, with your light tread
Of Ecstasy,
Will dance a measure to the dead,
Who only see
The slow encroaching mists of grey,
That make a spirit's holiday.
Of Ecstasy,
Will dance a measure to the dead,
Who only see
The slow encroaching mists of grey,
That make a spirit's holiday.
Fire, the precursor of the ash,
The wastrel flame,
Fashioned the darkness with a flash
Until there came
Day's reasoning economy
To set light free.
The wastrel flame,
Fashioned the darkness with a flash
Until there came
Day's reasoning economy
To set light free.
7
