Poems (Jackson)/Burnt Offering
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HE fire leaped up, swift, hot, and red;
Swift, hot, and red, waiting a prey;
The woman came with swift, light tread,
And silently knelt down to lay
Armfuls of leaves upon the fire,
As men lay fagots on a pyre.
BURNT OFFERING.
HE fire leaped up, swift, hot, and red;Swift, hot, and red, waiting a prey;
The woman came with swift, light tread,
And silently knelt down to lay
Armfuls of leaves upon the fire,
As men lay fagots on a pyre.
Armfuls of leaves which had been bright
Like painter's tints six months before,
All faded now, a ghastly sight,
Dusty and colorless, she bore,
And knelt and piled them on the fire,
As men lay fagots on the pyre.
Like painter's tints six months before,
All faded now, a ghastly sight,
Dusty and colorless, she bore,
And knelt and piled them on the fire,
As men lay fagots on the pyre.
Watching the crackle and the blaze,
Idly I smiled and idly said:
"Good-by, dead leaves, go dead leaves' ways.
Next year there will be more as red."
The woman turned, and from the fire
Looked up as from a funeral-pyre.
Idly I smiled and idly said:
"Good-by, dead leaves, go dead leaves' ways.
Next year there will be more as red."
The woman turned, and from the fire
Looked up as from a funeral-pyre.
I saw my idle words had been
Far crueler than I could know,
And made an old wound bleed again.
"These are not leaves," she whispered low,
"That I am burning in the fire,
But days,—it is a funeral-pyre."
Far crueler than I could know,
And made an old wound bleed again.
"These are not leaves," she whispered low,
"That I am burning in the fire,
But days,—it is a funeral-pyre."